Queen and Country Book 1: Proof of Concept
by SheWhoScrawls
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Emily Watson, half sister of our loyal Doctor, investigate the case of a missing Russian diplomat, which leads them to a mysterious Professor who has ties to Emily's own past. Can they uncover the man's location before political tensions reach a breaking point?
1. A Note To The Reader

_A/N: Welcome to my series Queen and Country! This is a series that I have germinated for a long time, and it's finally coming to fruition! It follows and is narrated by Dr. Watson's half-sister, Emily. Below is a full description of this book and the series to come!_

 _Emily Watson and her twin sister were raised in a peaceful English manor house. But when a mysterious Professor arrives to visit her father, she is thrown headfirst into a murderous conspiracy. Forced to seek refuge with her only living relation, half brother Dr. John Watson, she discovers that he lodges with the infamous detective, Sherlock Holmes. Book 1 follows Emily and Holmes as they begin to unravel her mystery, when they are introduced to the case of a missing Russian diplomat. The thread connecting the two cases runs deep, and they race against the clock to uncover the politician's location before political tensions reach a breaking point._

 _Note: Yes, I am aware that when I first posted this story, there was a formatting error that erased all italics. It is being corrected._

 _Leave your comments and thoughts in the reviews as you read, and please enjoy! - Ell_

* * *

My grandmother died recently, leaving behind a small house in the Sussex countryside full of 90+ years worth of belongings to sort through.

Grandma Constance lived a very full and exciting life. She was, in fact, one of the very first women employed as a detective by Scotland Yard. She served as an intelligence agent during the prime of her youth and beauty in the second world war. She was full of decades worth of poignant and heart-pounding stories, even when her memory began to fail towards the end.

But besides her own stories were those of her mother. I'm sure you've all heard of and maybe even read the Sherlock Holmes stories. They haven't lost their popularity over the last century, and have inspired an ever growing number of books, shows, and movies. But the stories left out an important detail. Constance's mother, Emily.

I assume that Doctor Watson never included his half-sister in his stories because it would have caused a great deal of public uproar at the time. Indeed, I know of a great many other details he fudged in his narratives because of various reasons, whether they be personal or political.

Nevertheless, Emily appears to have written her own extended accounts of some cases she had the privilege of experiencing with the famous duo. Most of them remain as yet unrecorded by any other source. It is these narratives that my brother and I uncovered in a steamer trunk in the attic while cleaning out Grandma Constance's house. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say it's been long enough that these stories cannot harm anyone, and it is my belief that they will be widely appreciated and enjoyed. Perhaps even the personal, emotional words of a soft woman will touch some of you.

However you choose to utilize these tales, I ask that you enjoy them and respect my great grandmother's legacy.

Yours,  
Renee Watson, 2017


	2. Ulterior Motives

Chapter 1: Ulterior Motives

* * *

The view from the library's bay window was everything it had always been. The window panes formed a transparent, yet solid barrier between myself and the picturesque hills outside.

It wasn't that I couldn't step out the front door and break that barrier, not at all like I didn't have any freedom. I had freedom, so long as it didn't take me far from home.

All I'd ever known existed within those boundaries. It would surprise most people how quickly being confined to an area of twenty miles becomes tedious. This was the reason the library was my haven, my preferred place. So many of these volumes could take me so far from home without me ever leaving my favorite plush armchair.

This morning I'd woken up with the same view out of my window that I'd seen every morning for what was now stretching into eternity. But it was another one of those mornings when I yearned for something more.

As I stood in front of the window, I looked down at the book in my hand. It was _Treasure Island,_ a recent publication by Robert Louis Stevenson. The printing date was less than five years ago, and Father wouldn't have cared enough about the maturing interests of his children to include recent works of literary entertainment in the massive library had Mother not insisted that we procure a copy.

I took another glance at the lush, green hillsides before settling down into the armchair, which was placed in front of the window but not directly facing it, so as to give the perfect angle and amount of light required for daytime reading.

I opened the book to chapter one and began reading the treasured favourite once more, relishing the rich tone and power of the words.

 _Part 1: The Old Buccaneer_

 _Chapter 1: The Old Sea Dog at the "Admiral Benbow"_

 _Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17-, and go back to the time when my father kept the "Admiral Benbow" inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roof…_

When I had finished the fifth paragraph, my attention broke away from the page with the sound of echoing footsteps heading from the front of the library to where I was, at the back window.

I tensed, and started to develop a headache upon thinking that Mrs. Hunter, head of the housekeeping staff, might be disturbing my peaceful reading to inform me that she was going to wash my curtains. Instead, I heaved a sigh of relief when a more familiar, youthful voice called out for me.

"Emily!"

"I'm back here!" I called back.

The footsteps began to sound more hurried, and a few seconds later, a familiar face appeared around the corner. A face identical in every feature to mine, and flushed with excitement and urgency.

I arose, setting down the open book in my seat. "Ariana, is everything all right?"

She grabbed my arm and pulled me behind one of the shelves, as if someone could see us conversing in the openness of the otherwise empty room. Then my twin sister began to speak in a soft voice, as though someone could be eavesdropping on us – again in the vacant room. "Do we know any tall, respectably-dressed professors recently arrived from London?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "None come to mind," I answered cautiously. "Why?"

"Father has a visitor. I was passing the dining hall as he was being shown in. They shook hands and their attitude is obviously quite friendly."

"Did you hear them discussing these particulars which you have used to describe this mysterious visitor?"

She shook her head. "No, but I did see some indications which proved them true."

"And these are?"

"First of all the fact that he is a professor is betrayed by the fact that there is chalk residue between his right forefinger and thumb. I noticed it when he shook hands with Father."

"But why a professor? Why not just a teacher?"

"He teaches college level mathematics. His coat was hanging in the hall, and I found this in his pocket." From the pocket of her skirt she pulled a worn and wrinkled piece of paper.

I crossed my arms and glared at my sister. "You are _not_ telling me you went through his pockets and actually _took_ things."

She shrugged. "When Father has a 'friendly' visitor, especially all the way from London, wouldn't it be only hospitable to introduce him to his children? Besides, you and I both know you'd have done the same."

I sighed and snatched the paper from her hand, staring at it.

 _Visiting lectures_

 _-Cambridge_

 _-Oxford_

 _-Edinburgh_

 _Assignments to collect:_

 _-Darcy_

 _-Phillips_

 _-Teller_

 _-Kelley_

She peeked at the paper I held and grabbed it, flipping it over. "Wrong side."

Eyebrows raised, I looked down at the other side of the paper. The formula itself I could not decipher, but fortunately, it was labeled.

 _The Binomial Theorem as Presented by Sir Isaac Newton_

 _(a+b)_ _5_ _= a_ _5_ _\+ 5a_ _4_ _b + 10a_ _3_ _b_ _2_ _\+ 10a_ _2_ _b_ _3_ _\+ 5ab_ _4_ _\+ b_

I cleared my throat and handed the paper back to her. "So far I follow. But the recently arrived from London?"

"This was also in his coat pocket." She pulled two more slips of paper out and handed them over for my inspection.

Train tickets, the stamped first half of a round trip. Victoria Station, in London, to Cambridge, and so on to Suffolk, and Thorndon Station. Dated 12th August, 1887. Today.

I nodded and gave her back the tickets. "I see. You do not think this visit is what it seems to be."

She fixed me with a look. "Nothing has been as seems with Father since Mother passed away."

I nodded, knowing how right she was. "How do we 'accidentally' get introduced to this mysterious professor?"

Ariana smiled. "I already thought of that. We'll walk into the dining hall, not realizing Father has a guest, and ask to take our horses out for a little exercise."

"How will we know to find him there?"

"We asked Mrs. Hunter."

I nodded in agreement, and we shook hands, sealing the bond with an unspoken sisterly oath.

* * *

After a detour in the hall for Ariana to return the stolen items to the stranger's coat, we stepped through the large double doors and into the dining hall. "Father," I asked right away, "could Ariana and I take out the horses for a ride? We'd be home by dinner, of course – oh, terribly sorry, I did not realize you had a visitor." I allowed my gaze to fall on the guest, who was sitting across the table from my father, and who had stood as I entered.

I took in the man's appearance.

As Ariana had said, he was tall. Much taller than Father. His forehead was domed, and his eyes deeply sunken, and those small, beady, dark spheres stared out at the world with an extraordinary keenness. The whole head was engaged in some constant oscillation from side to side, almost as a cobra, poised to strike, and yet those glassy, dark eyes remained fixed immovably on my sister and I.

I, as Ariana had, observed the chalk residue upon his right hand. His shoulders were rounded, presumably from so much time bending over a desk. There were wrinkles around his mouth and receding hairline, but I had a sneaking suspicion that these were not due to age, but more likely experience in his field.

"Ah." Father's brow crinkled, before he turned to his guest. "Emily, Ariana, this is an old acquaintance of mine, Mr. Moriarty. James, these are my daughters."

The man's mouth turned upwards in a smile. I did not sense any emotion or happiness behind it. It appeared to me to be forced. "A pleasure, ladies." To each of us he performed a sweeping bow.

Father spoke again. "James and I were business partners long ago. He wasn't that far away from our humble estate and decided to pay me a visit."

'James' gestured with outspread arms. "I wouldn't want to keep either of you from your ride. I'll be staying for dinner, so there will be plenty of time to converse then, I am sure."

With consent from Father, we left. Once the heavy, soundproof wooden doors were closed, Ariana turned to me. "Father doesn't have business partners," she told me. "And you saw that train ticket; he was deliberately headed for Thorndon."

I took a deep breath before speaking the words. "Father's lying to us."


	3. Formal Curiosity

Chapter 2: Formal Curiosity

* * *

I poked my head into the back room of the stables, where the young stable boy could usually be found whittling a piece of wood he'd found behind the estate. "Jamie?"

Wood shavings covered an area of the floor, but the room itself was devoid of human presence. I shrugged lightly, putting the question of where he was aside and hanging up my riding gloves.

"I saw the two of you returning and wanted a word with you," said a voice behind me.

I started and turned around, seeing Professor Moriarty leaning comfortably against the wall, fingering something inside his pocket. "I hope it was not a requirement for Ariana to be present, as she has already returned to the house." I kept my voice measured and perfectly cool, hoping to make the point that I did not like the looks of this man.

He waved a hand in dismissal. "I can speak to her later. But right now..." He trailed off, cocking his head at me.

I sat down on the bench, changing back out of my boots, but I kept my eyes fixed on him. "Why must you speak to me alone? What could this possibly be about?"

He opened his mouth partway, hesitating before speech. "I would like to tell you that you put on a very good show this afternoon, pretending you did not realize I was there as an excuse to be introduced."

I froze in the act of buttoning my left shoe. After a moment's pause I slipped the button the rest of the way through the small hole and stood up. "Was it honestly that obvious?"

Moriarty half smiled. It could more appropriately be called a smirk. "Apparently not to your father."

"Is that all?" I had snatched my hat from the peg and held it expectantly. "Or are you going to reveal to me how you knew I was pretending?"

His dark eyes languidly traveled to all corners of the stable, but then they fixed again on me, undoubtedly monitoring my body language. "Your sister went through my coat pockets."

He did not reveal how he had known this, nor did I expect him to. "And she undoubtedly told me of your arrival."

He nodded, but said nothing. I decided to continue, taking a step closer to him. He showed no reaction.

"I know you are a professor of mathematics. And I know that you are not here on a friendly visit."

He did not flinch. "Pray continue."

I did so – gladly. "The train tickets show where you were _planning_ to go. You weren't just riding by Thorndon and decided to stop in. You had previously bought a ticket here from Cambridge. Your visit here was very much deliberate."

He replied calmly. "I do not see anything directly wrong with my actions."

When I next spoke, I was surprised to hear how cold my tones had become. "There is the fact that you did not bother to correct my father when he said your decision was spur of the moment." I jammed my hat onto my head with alarming force. "You would, I think, find it a good idea to inform my father of the real reason for your visit, whatever that might be."

Moriarty elicited another smirk, amused, but coldly so. It was devoid of any emotion resembling humor. "Your father knows very well the reason I am here," he said. "I thought we'd established that he lied to you and your sister, by telling you this was a friendly visit."

Near the doorway, I paused. "So I was correct," I said, "in saying that it was not."

Then I turned to walk out the door.

"Tell your sister," called Moriarty after me, "that she really should stop snooping. It might get her into a lot of trouble one day."

I felt his eyes on me as I stiffly began to follow the familiar stone path towards the house, and I repressed a shiver somewhere in my spine. My clammy hands gripped the front of my dress tightly as I struggled to control my posture.

* * *

Back in the house, the entrance hall was empty, and I briefly wondered where Ariana was. I wouldn't look for her. I did not want to enrage her with an account of the conversation I'd just had until I had a little more information myself.

Struck again by how unnerved he had made me, I let out the shudder I'd repressed and bolted to the window. The pathway, and indeed the entire lawn, were devoid of human presence. Was he still out there in the stable? He must be, unless he had taken the back door and gone out towards the woods. But what on earth was he doing? I was overcome by the urge to march back out there. He simply could not go off alone on our property.

I stopped myself with my hand on the doorknob. Maybe I was uncomfortable with this concept, and I'm sure Ariana was too, but the last thing we needed was for Moriarty to know this.

Exhaling deeply, I forced myself to turn around and walk deliberately towards the library.

I bit my lip as I entered the cool room, listening carefully for any indications that Ariana was there. After easing the door closed behind me, I even called her name, just to be certain.

Satisfied with my exploration, I passed a half dozen thick and fully laden shelves on my way to the alcove I was looking for. An ebony book stand housed the thickest volume I had ever seen: a _who's who_ compendium of each prominent family's lineage in all the British Isles. As a young child, too small to reach the top of the stand, I had only been allowed to view it as my mother held me up to gaze with wonder upon the crisp, thin pages inked delicately and updated with each census.

Even now, I approached the tome with a sort of reverence, and held my breath as I cracked the spine and leafed through the sacred pages until I reached the letter M.

I skimmed through Marshes and Maypoles and Morgans until I finally reached Moriarty. I glanced behind me to ensure that he wasn't there before beginning to read.

* * *

Dinner had been a rather quiet affair for Ariana and I, until Father and the Professor broke out of their conversation.

Father turned towards us. "James and I have some business matters to settle," he explained, "so I hope you girls wouldn't mind terribly if he occupied a guest room for a couple of nights."

Ariana and I froze.

Moriarty looked at us, then turned to Father. "If this will be a complication, Peter, I'll be more than willing to procure a room in town."

Father afforded a sharp glance at us. "That won't be necessary, James, my daughters will just need to adapt to a small adjustment in their lives."

I managed to keep a calm outward demeanor, but I could feel Ariana's fist clenching in her lap. I could sense the thought running through her mind. _We've made larger adjustments before._

Ariana and I spent the rest of the meal sitting in silence. The second we were excused in order to allow the two men to speak alone, we were up and out the door.

* * *

"I don't like him." Ariana's voice was flat. "Father's never been forthcoming, but he's never lied through his teeth like this!"

"You'll like him even less when I tell you what occurred in the stables after you left." I proceeded to relay the events of my conversation with Moriarty, and his final warning.

She had been hugging her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth on my bed. When I finished, she leaped up and paced angrily to the window, muttering a barely audible string of Latin insults and curses.

My sister's eyes were filled with rage as she turned back to me. "What in the name of Bloody Mary does Father think he's doing? Can't he see past that façade?"

"I don't know, Ariana." I honestly didn't.

Ariana didn't seem to hear me, for she obliviously continued her rant.

"Ariana!" I confess that I spoke rather more harshly than I meant to.

She stopped, drawing a breath as she released the chair she'd been holding in a grip so tight I was afraid one of the two parties involved would break.

I exhaled in relief. "I realize that is excellent Latin practice, but please, keep yourself in check."

Her eyes were still blazing, but she bit her lip and nodded.

I rose from my desk chair. "All right. We need to find out more about this man. What do you propose we do?"

Her eyes had been fixed on the ground, but when I spoke this, her gaze met mine with a devious glint. "They're both downstairs, playing billiards."

I nodded, a smirk rising nearly to the surface but repressed by the lack of amusement in the situation. "To the Professor's room, it is."

Ariana shook her head. "Somehow, he knew I'd gone through his pockets. He'd surely realize at a glance if we'd been in his room."

I sighed. "So we'll have to look in Father's study."

This time, it was Ariana who nodded. "They obviously do know each other quite well, so Father must have something informative on him."

As we stole down the staircase barely a moment later, I whispered to Ariana, "I can tell you one other thing about this Professor."

"And what's that?"

"I did some looking today. His surname's Irish. It means 'warrior of the sea.'"

My twin snorted softly. "So he's Poseidon on land, is what you mean."

"The Moriarty family are also ancient Suffolk nobility."

Two steps ahead of me, Ariana abruptly stopped. " _Where_ in Suffolk?" she asked, as though it were a scandal that she'd never been informed of this before.

"Earl Soham," I answered.

She turned her head to look at me. "That's disturbingly close to here."

Ariana was right: it was hardly even twenty miles.

I swallowed. "I know, but we should concentrate on actually _making it_ to Father's study without being discovered." But I didn't say what I was thinking. Earl Soham was twenty miles away from Thorndon. Ariana and I had never been allowed twenty miles from home. It seemed more than probable that we had been kept from approaching Earl Soham and the Moriarty family estate. But why twenty miles all around, and not just Earl Soham? _Of course._ Because only specifying the town would indicate a place or certain people that Father wanted us to avoid, and not just a concern for our safety. We would be sure to question it and express a desire to visit there even more. But what could be so horrible about the Moriarty family estate that we would expressly be forbidden from approaching even the town? But none of this did I say out loud, for it had only taken a mere moment for it to pass through my mind, and Ariana was nodding at me.

"I'm walking," she assured me, and took a step as if to prove her point. Then she turned to look at me. "Aren't you coming?"

I nodded silently, still preoccupied with my thoughts, and we began walking again.

It wasn't long before we reached the first floor hallway where Father kept his study. We stopped outside the door. I paused for a moment to stare at the name painstakingly engraved into the wooden door.

 _Sir Peter Ashford, Esq._

I pressed my ear to the wood. No sounds came from within.

"I told you they were in the billiards room!" hissed Ariana in my ear.

I stiffened. "Shhh, that's still just down the hall!" I cautioned.

She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "All right," she said as I opened the door noiselessly.

We slipped in, and as soon as Ariana had eased the door shut, I lit the gas lamps, albeit dimly.

I crossed to his desk while Ariana knelt by one of the large boxes of old papers in the corner.

As I was opening one of the top drawers, I happened to look up at the surface of his desk. My eyes immediately fell on a piece of paper filled with my father's cramped handwriting. The name _Moriarty_ was at the top.

My eyes widened. "Ariana..." I called softly.

She replaced a stack of files in the box and came to stand by me as I gently picked up the paper, skimming paragraphs about the man's childhood and early career until I reached a few hastily scribbled lines at the bottom, punctuated by a splash of spilled ink in the left corner.

 _Currently holds chair as Professor of Mathematics, University of St. Andrews, Scotland. Possesses the thought capabilities considered as normal for our family._

Ariana gasped and pointed at the line I had just read. " _Our_ family? But could that mean..." her eyes met mine, and in her gaze I read the unfinished question.

Could that phrase actually mean what it sounded like? Were Moriarty and my father... _related?_

I took a shaky breath, but then shook off the feeling that I was on the verge of something huge. I took another breath, and moved to the final sentence, which warranted its own line and was underlined thickly several times:

 _Caution advised. Knows the family secret._

My sister and I stared at each other.

"What on earth is the 'family secret?'" asked Ariana.

I cast a nervous glance at the door. "Well, I certainly know what it must have to do with. It's overshadowed us all our lives."

"What's that?"

"The fact that you and I are Watsons, not Ashfords."


	4. Quero Non Grata

Chapter 3: Quero Non Grata

* * *

The next morning I awoke abruptly to a terrible screeching sound aimed directly into my ear.

My first instinct, even prior to opening my eyes, was to thrust one hand over my wounded ear as quickly as possible. My other hand immediately began to massage my frontal lobe, due to the ache that had developed there.

Finally my eyes flickered open, and adjusted to the sight of my sister, holding my violin within three inches of my ear. I winced, wondering how much permanent damage it would cause to be woken up by the sound of an inexperienced violinist far too close to your face.

"Ariana," I groaned, "now do you understand why I warned you never to play that instrument unless I give you my consent? Or violin lessons?"

Ariana dropped the violin onto a nearby chair in relief. "You needed woken up somehow," she informed me sensibly.

And that was when I looked behind my sister and out my bedroom window. The horizon was beginning to tinge itself a gentle shade of coral. "Honestly, Ariana! _The sun is rising!_ "

She didn't even afford a glance behind her. "Yes, I know it's early, but it's an urgent matter!"

As I pushed myself up in bed, I realized that my sister was already fully dressed. _Sweet merciful heavens!_ "How long have you been up?" I asked incredulously.

Ariana looked at me seriously. "Honestly, Emily, do you believe I could have gone to sleep last night, with that man sleeping down the hall? I'm awfully surprised you managed it."

I stared past her at the sunrise again. "What is the urgent matter?" I asked my identical twin, wishing that _identical_ meant I could read her thoughts.

She started and reached beside her, picking up a slip of paper. She pressed it into my hand.

I held it up to my eyes. On seeing the familiar, angular handwriting I uttered a curse. "That's his handwriting," I stated, as if Ariana couldn't already know this.

She nodded. "He slipped it under the door an hour ago. I was itching to wake you up sooner. Before you read the note, do you have any other observations and deductions to make?"

I studied the handwriting. I studied the small blotch of ink on the corner of the paper. I studied the paper itself. After a few seconds, another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

I looked up at my sister. "It's not a particular stationery," I concluded.

She smiled. "Exactly. Now explain how you can come to this conclusion."

That was just like Ariana, always testing. "Well, we know from last night that he was a Professor of mathematics at the University of St. Andrew." _And that was it._ Key word: _was._ "And if he was still a professor, he would be writing on the University's stationery. This is just ordinary foolscap paper."

The paper was not the thick cardstock used for stationery. There was no monogram on it, and the watermark was the familiar, well-known jester's cap that had given way to the popular name: foolscap.

Ariana smiled, her eyes glinting in the early morning sunlight. " _Precisely._ The only reason he would no longer be using the school's stationery is –"

"- That he no longer works there." This was one of those instances where Ariana's thoughts _were_ plain enough for me to finish her sentences.

She nodded, but stayed silent, and I used that as an indicator to continue reading the note.

 _My dear girls,_

 _Going through my pockets was rather a mistake, but last night was a very close call. It's fortunate for you that I did not decide to inform Peter that you two were in his study. I am inclined to give you a piece of advice, as I do encourage chaotic behavior: do remember to shut off the lamps before leaving a room._

 _You already know that Peter and I are related. You know there is a family secret. There must be some sort of connection between the two. I urge you to think, but if that is too much of a challenge for you, I shall be in the Northwest Passage at noon._

 _And remember, girls, that nothing is as it seems._

"Too much of a challenge for us!" I spat out. "Ariana, do you realize how much he's underestimated us?"

She nodded, slower this time, more thoughtfully. "I know we are capable of thinking this through, Emily," she said, speaking carefully, as if simultaneously weighing our options, "but he's _offering us the truth._ We'd be fools not to take him up on that offer. We may be able to figure out part of the puzzle, but we'll need him to tell us whatever we miss. He's clearly a genius, with a brain of the first order."

I got out of bed as she spoke, mulling over her words as my feet hit the floor. She made an excellent point: we might be intelligent, but there was no competing with this man. There were many words that could be used to paint a mental picture of him, and _genius_ was prominent among them.

As I stood at the window, watching the sun slowly rise over the hills, my sister's voice began speaking again. "There's still something about that man I don't trust. I can't really put my finger on it, but..."

And the moment she spoke those words was when I _did_ put my finger on it.

 _The newspaper from last week, that small paragraph about the Scottish museum robbery...and the pamphlet in Moriarty's pocket yesterday afternoon...Yes. Oh yes, that must be it._

After this lightning quick thought process, I whirled around to face my sister. "Do you remember that small article in the papers last Wednesday?"

It only took her a moment to recall any 'small articles' the two of us would have discussed together, and narrow down the possibilities to the articles published in last Wednesday's paper. "The painting reported stolen from the Museum of the University of Saint Andrews?"

" _Yes._ A teacher at the University was suspected of stealing the painting, based on an anonymous tip to the Dean, and to avoid scandal, the suspect was merely asked to resign his post." Even as I began to speak, Ariana's eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly in comprehension.

"Oh, my –"

But I held up my hand to signify that I was not finished. "Yesterday, when Moriarty came to speak to me in the stables, I happened to observe a pamphlet sticking out of his pocket. It was from the Museum, dated Monday last, and advertising a formal reception at the aforementioned Museum for the unveiling of a new painting which the museum had acquired."

" _Shipwreck in Stormy Seas,_ by Claude Joseph Vernet," added in Ariana.

I nodded in verification. "Of course Moriarty received an automatic invitation to the unveiling, as a Professor at the University. He realized his monumental opportunity..."

"...And took it," finished Ariana. "But, why steal the painting in the first place? And why _that_ painting?"

My eyes glinted. "That's what we'll find out at noon, when we show him that we know more than he thinks."

* * *

At breakfast, Moriarty and my father were, once more, having a deeply involved conversation in quiet tones. Ariana and I sat next to each other, silently observing the men's body language, straining our ears to hear some part of their conversation.

Finally, I caught the last half of Moriarty's statement. "...And that was when you deserted us. Think about this, Peter, as your chance for redemption!"

My head turned to give Ariana a sideways glance. Her eyes met mine, and understanding passed between us, unspoken.

After a few more moments, the men's conversation grew into more normal tones, and I could hear Moriarty's voice clearly. "I was thinking when I woke up of taking an excursion this afternoon. That covered pathway off the northwestern side of the courtyard seems like an excellent spot for solitary reflection on nature."

Northwest Passage. Of course the note hadn't meant the trade route that Hernán Cortés had commissioned Francisco de Ulloa to recover in 1539, it had meant the passage on the northwestern side of our estate.

"Luncheon will be served at one-thirty, am I correct?" continued the _ex_ -professor.

My father nodded an affirmation.

"Then I believe I shall make my way over there about noon."

A few moments later, Ariana and I had been excused, and we were heading towards the doors when Moriarty spoke again. "Peter, I believe your daughters have a rather unsafe measure of curiosity. After all, it is said that curiosity killed the cat." As he spoke, I could feel his eyes lingering on me, and I felt that prickly feeling on the back of my neck, and from the way Ariana stiffened beside me, I knew that she was feeling the very same sensation.

* * *

Exactly five minutes to noon found us entering the courtyard, facing the familiar scene of stone walkways and benches placed in between well-trimmed shrubs.

We walked straight across it to the northwest corner, whereupon we walked through a doorway into a covered stone passage. Carved columns supported the roof, creating open windows bordered by columns on each side and a railing at the bottom. Immediately our eyes fell upon a tall, slim figure standing about halfway down the path, staring out a window at the picturesque hills for which Suffolk is known.

Without turning around or, indeed, moving at all, he spoke. "You are two minutes and twenty-seven seconds early, girls," he said by way of greeting as we approached.

We came to stand beside him, and slowly he turned to face us. We saw that snake-like face, saw those small, dark spheres, saw the pestilential outlook of his mind. "I was certain you'd come," he said evenly, almost alluringly. "You're just too curious to let the offer drop."

"We know that you are no longer a professor at the University of St. Andrews," I said in reply, hoping to make it clear to him that we wouldn't be fooled by any stalling tactics.

" _And_ we know _why,_ " added Ariana.

Moriarty's thin eyebrows arched in surprise, rising high into the domain of his overhanging forehead. "My, you two can put two and two together even better than I thought." His tone was quite praising and complimentary.

"Yes," I said dryly, "we came up with four."

He smirked. "As well you should have. So I take it you read about the robbery in the papers last Wednesday?"

"We did," I replied. "And I observed the pamphlet in your coat pocket the other day in the stables. Add into the equation the fact that your note from this morning was not written on the University's stationery..."

He nodded appraisingly, almost as if enjoying this special treat. I continued my speech. "However, what I'd really like to know is who submitted that anonymous tip."

He shook his head. "I exploited every resource I had in that town, and still haven't the slightest idea who was behind it. But when I find out, I assure you that they will be dealt with."

As if we cared a whit about any of that.

Ariana moved on to the next question. "And what was the significance of that painting?"

Moriarty afforded a small smile. "You see, I have rather a fascination with fine artwork. About a year ago I acquired a Jean Baptiste Greuze – quite a desirable piece, in my opinion. When I was under suspicion for stealing that Vernet from the University museum, they thought I'd stolen the Greuze as well!" He ended the statement as if such a presumption were scandalous.

Ariana and I merely traded dubious glances. "A fascination with fine artwork is not sufficient motive, _Mr._ Moriarty," I told him. "When you attended that unveiling last week, you seized your opportunity almost as soon as you knew the particulars of the artist who put it down on canvas, almost as if you were waiting for the perfect piece of art to arrive." I did not ask the question, but he seemed to read it in my statement.

After a moment's hesitation during which he carefully picked out his words, he started to speak. "There is a man," he began, "whose success I have been following for some time. He has much more talent than any of the professionals, yet he calls himself an amateur. I believe his chosen term for it is a...private consulting detective. When the police find themselves with a case beyond their limits, they bring it to Sherlock Holmes, the remarkable reasoner, who can often bring cases to a close without ever leaving the comfort of his sitting room. Mr. Holmes is of French descent, and Claude Joseph Vernet was one of Holmes' ancestors. Claude's grandson, Emile Jean Horace Vernet, was Holmes' great-uncle, you see. I hoped this might attract his attention."

Something seemed very wrong. This man was calmly and willingly confessing to us that he had stolen a prized 18th century painting hardly a week ago. I could read the same thought on Ariana's face, but we both decided to keep gathering more information, as long as we were there. "That connection you mentioned...what was it?"

He nodded. "So you remembered that, did you?"

I didn't say so, but I didn't care at all for his attitude. Honestly, how could we forget the original reason we were going to take this meeting seriously at all?

He continued, oblivious to the looks on our faces. "I may not be as old as you think, but your father is also not as young as he appears."

"Brothers." I spoke the word at the same moment as I thought it for the first time. "You're brothers, aren't you?"

Then the full comprehension of this fact dawned on me. _Oh my God._ This scoundrel was my uncle.

He smiled and nodded, again as if complimenting our understanding. "Very good, Miss _Watson._ " He emphasized the surname, and, just as automatically as the first one, this next piece of the puzzle fit neatly into the frame.

My understanding broadened far more in the next ten seconds than it had in my entire life. But he _wasn't_ my uncle. And he wasn't Ariana's uncle, either. We were Watsons. But I asked him a different question than whether or not he really was my uncle. "Why did Father change his name?"

"Can we just say that our family, despite being nobility, has a rather...questionable history. My brother wanted no more to do with us. So he legally changed his name, and began a new life with a wife who already had two young daughters."

So my mother had previously been married to someone named Watson, and when Ariana and I were infants, she remarried to this _Ashford_ , while her children kept their biological father's surname.

This explained the mysteries of our childhood, but not all of the mysteries we dealt with now.

And evidently Ariana realized this as well, for she spoke again, her voice far steadier than I felt. "But why are you telling us this?"

He answered calmly and easily. "Because you did not heed my warning about what happens to curious cats. Now, when you realize that the truth comes with a price, you will know you only have yourselves to blame."

Indeed, the names my sister had called him in my room the day before seemed to fit him very well.


	5. Loose Ends

Chapter 4: Loose Ends

* * *

"I can't believe this."

After luncheon, a repeat of yesterday could be found in the shape and form of Ariana angrily pacing my bedroom floor. "Can't we go to Father?"

I sighed, setting down the pen and the paper upon which I'd managed to write nothing. "Father lied to us, Ariana, how can we trust him?"

She thrust her hand at me as if to say, _And there it is._ "That's precisely the problem! He lied to protect the 'family secret,' but we never even found out what that is!"

I massaged my temple with one hand. There were still things we didn't know, but evidently we already knew more than was safe. Ex-Professor Moriarty had threatened us, that had to have been the meaning of his words. " _...you did not heed my warning...the truth comes at a price...you have only yourselves to blame."_

I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts. Barely a moment later, my eyelids popped open again as I remembered a thought I'd previously pushed aside. "Ariana, what about that bit of their conversation we overheard at breakfast this morning?"

" _...And that was when you deserted us. Think about this, Peter, as your chance for redemption!"_

Ariana snapped her fingers. "Yes, what does 'chance for redemption' mean?"

I groaned and stood up, nearly getting knocked over as Ariana swept past me. A million thoughts ran through my head, not many of them sounding incredibly realistic. Next I attempted a logical thought process, seeing if I could follow the thread far enough to get the solution within my sight.

We knew that my father had estranged himself from the Moriarty family, even going so far as to change his name. We knew because of the relevance in the dates that Moriarty had come here, to his brother, because of his resignation at the University. What could he want with my father, and why was Sir Peter Ashford lying to us about it? He was obviously trying to hide the fact that the two of them were brothers, but why? And what motive did Moriarty have for not telling him what we knew?

It took me a moment to notice that Ariana had stopped, and now stood stock still, facing the door. "Ariana?" I asked tentatively. "What is it?"

And then I saw it. Slipped cautiously under the door was another folded up note. It couldn't have been placed more than a minute ago.

I swore under my breath, rushing over to retrieve the piece of paper, while Ariana stood statue-like, almost as if she had been turned to stone.

I unfolded the piece of paper to read whatever might be inside. I was not shocked to discover the thin, slanted script belonging to ex-professor James Moriarty.

 _I offered redemption. A chance for him to help out a family member in need. When he hears of my counteractive offer, I am sure he will not refuse._

I tilted the paper at an angle, and the black liquid glimmered. "The ink is still fresh," I told Ariana. "He must have been outside the door."

But Ariana hardly reacted. I wondered if she had even heard me read the note. "Emily, we already know the family secret," she said.

I stopped. _Did we?_ We knew that Ariana and I were Watsons, and that our father was not actually a blood relative. We knew that Mother had been married to someone named Watson, and that he had likely died when we were infants. Then she married Father. But was there more to it?

Evidently Ariana read the question in my eyes, for she answered it. "What more could there be?"

She was entirely correct. There were only so many things that could be added to the situation, and none of them fit. Unless we had missed one of those things, then we knew all there was to know.

I met Ariana's gaze. _But what was so secret about that?_

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want my help?"

Ariana half smiled at me from her position in the doorway of the library. "Are you sure _you_ don't want _my_ help? It is reconnaissance, Em. You should have a sounding board."

"I will be fine, Ariana. If suspected, there is always the option to retreat and later deny being on that floor of the building. You, on the other hand, are taking the overwhelming job of a one-person research team."

"I can manage, dear sister. Now go!" She shooed me away with a wave of her arm, and once I had turned to leave, she softly shut the library door to commence her search.

I, on the other hand, was heading down the hall to where I knew the two men were engaging in "business" in Father's study. I had figured the best plan was to listen through the door, and if they showed signs of coming out or opening the door, I would turn and walk in the opposite direction, pretending to be on my way to the library.

I stopped outside the closed door, taking a breath and wiping my sweaty hands on my skirts. I took a step closer, careful not to let my skirts rustle as I moved, and leaned my ear close to the wooden barricade.

"...regret it, I am _quite_ sure!"

Following our visitor's voice, there was a heavy sigh. "Leanne would never have approved of this. She'd have thrown you out before dinner!"

Then there was a harsh laugh. "Leanne is _dead_!"

I assumed it was my father's fist that made contact with some object, most likely his desk. "And by heaven, I'll swear it was your doing!"

I sucked in a breath as silently as I could.

"I had nothing against your wife." The tone was almost taunting.

"You hated her!" I could sense bloody murder in my father's eyes.

"That, Peter," said Moriarty calmly, "is why we cast you off. You cannot hold your temper, like the rest of us."

"That is because you don't have hearts or feelings," snarled my father.

"Don't you mean _we,_ Peter? You _are_ one of us."

"Don't be a fool. I never was one of you, and you all knew it. How could I ever bear the disgrace of that surname? Live, knowing that anywhere I should go, I would bear the mark of such a cold-blooded family."

"Leanne would encourage you to embrace the challenge. It builds character."

"If only you hadn't killed her, James!"

"I had nothing to do with your wife's death. It was consumption, wasn't it?"

"That's only what the doctor said."

Moriarty elicited a low chuckle. "So you do not trust the judgment of a worthy physician, if only it means you can pin the blame on your brother?"

"Why did you kill her?"

"She may have threatened me, Peter, but I am certainly not responsible for her death."

My father let out a high laugh, a clear mark of near-hysteria. "You were always the best actor among us, James. How can I know you aren't bluffing?"

"Because having blood on my hands, figuratively, of course, would only tarnish my reputation and ruin my chances of staying out of prison. I'm here because I'm desperate enough as it is."

"Then you had her killed. You can still be held accountable."

I could only picture the smirk on Moriarty's face. "I can neither confirm nor deny it."

My father swore vehemently.

Moriarty only gave a calm reply. "I shall be back presently," he said. "I must retrieve a document from my chambers. Then we may resume negotiation."

I started and quickly turned away from the door, walking down the hall as if I hadn't just overheard my father accusing his own brother of killing my mother.

I heard the door open, and Moriarty's voice calling out, "Would you mind opening the window? It feels terribly stuffy in there."

As soon as the door was shut and I heard the latch click, a soft voice spoke from behind me. "Shall we go into the library, Miss Watson? I believe that is where we shall find your sister, is it not?"

I stiffened. "How did you know?"

He only laughed softly. "Come along now, I mustn't leave your father waiting very long."

I took a breath to steady myself – for I confess to being slightly frightened – and began walking towards the library. Moriarty's footsteps were heard behind me, slow and deliberate.

I turned the handle of the door and pushed in, entering the library, where Ariana immediately looked up from the pile of books that surrounded her. She froze, her eyes full of fear.

I stepped into the room, and vaguely heard Moriarty shutting the door behind us. He clapped his hands together. "Sit down, girls."

Unsure of what might happen, Ariana sat down in her seat again, and I took the chair directly beside her.

On the other side of the table, Moriarty stood facing us, arms crossed. He looked at the books spread out on the tabletop. "Miss Ariana, have you found anything interesting?"

"Not yet," she replied, staring at him levelly.

He turned his gaze to me. "Do you think I am lying, Miss Emily?"

"I do think it is true that you wouldn't want my mother's blood directly on your hands."

Ariana's mouth fell open in abject horror. "He _killed_ her?"

I allowed my eyes to shoot venom into the man's heart. "No," I said icily, "he merely had her killed. To that, he practically confessed."

My sister began to rise from her seat, but Moriarty held up a hand, and she stayed put, limbs trembling in pure hatred.

"Leanne Watson-Ashford threatened me. I was only tying up loose ends."

I swallowed my fear and spoke. "And Father's chance for redemption? Did he take you up on your offer?"

Moriarty shrugged. "He refused."

At that moment, a voice – Mrs. Hunter's – let out a scream, and her panicked cry of a single word could be heard throughout the normally peaceful house. "Murder!"

My heart froze, and beside me I thought for a moment that Ariana had ceased breathing.

Moriarty merely smiled. "As I said: loose ends."


	6. In A Locked Room

Chapter 5: In A Locked Room

* * *

Not yet sure what our reaction should be, Ariana and I sat still as stone in our seats, not daring to move.

"You've killed both our parents," Ariana finally whispered.

Moriarty chuckled, his arms remaining crossed calmly. "No, I haven't," he replied. "Miss Emily can attest that Peter Ashford was alive and well when I left his study. Ever since, I have been standing here in front of you."

Ariana swore in French, her eyes betraying that she'd like to do much more than call him an...illegitimate child.

Whether the word was spoken in French or Greek or Latin, I wholly agreed with my sister. Being shut in the library, standing directly in front of us, gave him an undeniable alibi.

I knew that he was the one ultimately behind my father's death, but he still couldn't be held accountable in the eyes of the law. It wasn't technically fratricide.

At my sister's utterance Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "I _do_ speak French, Ariana."

"You have no right to address me by my first name." The words were cold, hard, and were nothing like anything that had ever come out of my sister's mouth.

I knew Ariana well enough to know that she was hiding behind a fierce exterior, and that she wanted exactly what I did at that moment – to shrink back in our seats until we became invisible.

Moriarty's eyes glinted. "Whether it be biological or not, I am still family, and I believe this would make me your closest living relative, unless you count the two other Moriarty brothers."

"And where are these other brothers?" I found myself asking.

"One is a stationmaster in the west of England, and the other is a colonel, currently on his second term in India."

There was a moment of silence during which Moriarty turned to survey the library's shelves, and Ariana broke it with what sounded like a warning. "The town's not five miles away, I'm sure the police will be here soon, since the warning has been sounded."

Moriarty smiled, and what was almost a hint of amusement shone in his eyes behind that snakelike mask of a face. "Was that a threat or a warning, Ariana? Logically, it can be neither. You cannot accuse me of killing your father."

Suddenly I had a thought and retaliated. "But we can show them our basis for the knowledge that you stole that painting."

"If I deny any involvement in the matter, Emily, whom do you think the eyes of the law would find favor with?"

Ariana, her eyes blazing like a hateful predator, repeated her phrase of French contempt. Moriarty did no more than draw a calm breath before speaking as if he had not just been cursed and condemned in French by a fifteen year old girl. "And considering the circumstances before you, I think you'll find that it is inevitably unwise to turn me in."

I glared at him, a fire worthy of the devil himself blazing in my eyes.

He began walking away from us, towards the door. "Since I have nothing to do with the matter on a criminal basis, it would be perfectly normal of me to leave this room in order to find out what is going on."

I had to ask what had popped into my mind. "Why are you inquiring and the victim's own daughters are not?"

"For your own safety, I have told you to stay in here, where you will not be exposed." He began to turn again towards the door, but faced us once more. "Have you ever wondered why you were always kept so close to home?"

I swallowed hard and stayed still, thinking of my revelation concerning Earl Soham. Ariana merely nodded.

"Your father was always into something, incurring the wrath of certain people who have been seeking a way to silence him for years. It looks as if some of them have finally succeeded."

And following that statement, he left us alone.

* * *

As I stood at the window of my bedroom, numbly wondering how real the last hour had been, I vaguely heard the door open and shut.

I knew that Ariana had returned when I observed the rustle of her skirts and heard her say, "The police ambulance is late in arriving. The officers are all waiting downstairs, taking the opportunity to speak to Mrs. Hunter some more. They need nothing more from us besides the brief statements we already gave."

My brain snapped back into action as I turned away from the panes of glass, foggy with the air of a cool afternoon, to face my sister. "Shall we proceed, then?"

Ariana half-heartedly offered a sort of smile. "Well, we certainly aren't going to get any information from the police."

I grasped her hand, and we made our way silently to the first floor hallway, past the ineffective attempts at a barricade, and into the study.

Before I concentrated my gaze on the scene which lay before my eyes, I turned to Ariana. "When Moriarty came out, he asked Father to open the window. I heard him lock the door after Moriarty walked out. Did you overhear how Mrs. Hunter got in to discover the body?"

"She was knocking on the door to bring them another bottle of brandy, and when there was no answer and she found that the door was locked, she took out her ring of keys and opened the door."

I turned to face the room, closing my eyes and taking a steadying breath when my gaze instantly fell on the lifeless body of Sir Peter Ashford, formerly Moriarty, lying crumpled on the floor in front of the window. It was located close to halfway between the desk and the fireplace, but slightly nearer to the desk, with one arm stretched out toward the carved furniture article of polished cherry wood, as the window was behind the desk chair. A bullet hole was in the middle of his forehead, and an expression of surprise and shock was frozen on his face.

"Did you hear if any weapon was to be found in the room?" I asked.

"A careful search turned up no sign of one," said Ariana from behind me.

"And Mrs. Hunter heard no gunshot?"

"Neither did we," Ariana reminded me, "and we were closer to the study than she was."

No weapon in the room. No sound of a gunshot. And yet there was a man dead with a bullet to the head.

I turned to the other indications of the room. An empty bottle and two half-full glasses of amber colored brandy sat virtually undisturbed on the desk. The window was open, and a cool breeze filtered through, which had extinguished the fire. It looked as if the room was just now being occupied, if not for the dead body, which added a rather melancholy note to the whole of the scene.

"The shooter must have fired through the window." I winced slightly as I stepped over my father's body to stand at the window as he had.

I put my hands on the sill to steady myself and leaned out, peering into the early dusk. There was no way a shooter could have climbed through the window without scaling the brick outfacing of the house like a tree frog. He also could not have gotten back down without landing in the full flowerbeds on the ground. No one would be so unthinking – the roses were planted underneath the window, not in full bloom by any means, but a tangled mess of thorns nonetheless.

"So we have, for sure, concluded that it was murder?" asked Ariana.

I turned my head to meet her gaze. "Of course we have."

Once back to the window, I mentally calculated the distance between the window and the nearest tall tree. About 100 yards. The next nearest possibility for a – dare I say it – perch for an assassin was the greenhouse roof. 150 yards.

"You don't listen well, do you, Emily?" came a voice from the doorway, _not_ my sister's.

I went rigid, and was almost afraid to turn around. When I did, the frighteningly familiar face of ex-Professor James Moriarty was visible in the doorway.

Ariana had turned to face him as well, seemingly as frozen as a block of ice.

"If you two will allow me to escort you back to your bedchamber and if you remain there until dinner, this shall stay between the three of us."

Silently, we walked with him up the stairs, ducking behind a large tapestry for a moment when we heard the sounds of officers returning, with the local coroner in tow.

"It's a baffling affair," one officer said. "Should we send for Scotland Yard? I've heard they have a private consultant whose success is unrivaled."

Next I heard an older, more experienced voice – a new one, so most likely the coroner's. "If we were going to send for the Mets, it should have been done earlier, lad. That time has passed."

Their voices grew fainter, and the 'lad' gave an indiscernible reply. We moved out onto the staircase and continued on.

A few moments later, Moriarty let us into my bedroom and shut the door.

I eyed my violin in the corner, wanting nothing more than to play through my entire music book for the purpose of calming my not inconsiderably jangled nerves.

But I walked to the window, for once not seeing beauty when I looked out upon the hills. I saw instead many places for assassins to hide. I saw darkness rather than light.

It was then that the reality hit me, and I turned around, sinking to the floor, slumped against the wall. "Father's dead for knowing far less than we do," I whispered.

I could see it in Ariana's eyes that she was thinking the same thing I was.

 _And that means we're next._


	7. Escape Route

Chapter 6: Escape Route

* * *

I picked up my violin, holding up the bow to meet the instrument's strings. I squeezed my eyes shut, setting the ornately carved, hollowed-out piece of wood back on the chair on which it had sat, for my hands were shaking far too badly. I sank down on the side of my bed and held up a hand to massage my pulsing temple, gasping for breath as my throat closed tight and allowing a single tear to escape from beneath my eyelid.

I realized how much I was letting myself slip, and I took a deep, steadying breath. One tear. That was already more than I could afford at the moment, and that was all I would cry for my father. There was nothing to mourn for. I'd never really known him, nor had any real kinship to him.

And he'd never been a huge part of our life. He practically ignored us while Mother was alive. After her decline and eventual demise, he restricted our movements, keeping us close to home. And he never did that himself – he left such things to the servants. He himself was always secluded, keeping to a tight schedule of breakfast, his office, luncheon, his office, dinner, his office, and bed.

By missing him I would only be missing the sight of him at meals. Nothing more.

I sighed and stood up. Ariana had been gone far too long. It had been nearly two hours since she had confirmed that Moriarty was downstairs, and that it was safe for her to go into the library. We needed answers, and books were where she suggested we turn. Father had always kept large volumes of ancestral records, including but not limited to the huge book I had consulted yesterday, where much information of our family history was written.

But it should not have taken this long. Why hadn't she at least returned with the books so that we could investigate them together?

I quickly made my way to the door, opening it a crack to make sure the hallway was empty before slipping out and easing the door shut silently.

The path to the library was completely empty, and I was undisturbed as I crept silently toward the huge double doors. It seemed far too quiet to fit the circumstances, and the thought only served to make me more paranoid. I wondered if they could hear my heart pounding from downstairs.

I pushed open one of the doors. It creaked rather more loudly than I'd anticipated. I winced as fear made my heart leap into my throat, and, hands shaking, I let the heavy door shut as slowly as it could move. "Ariana?" I tried calling out, but only a whisper made it past my parted lips.

Merciful heavens, it was _exceedingly_ cold in here, compared to the rest of the house.

There was silence. I paused for a moment, and then I heard the whistle of a summer breeze. _In here?_

"Ariana?" I called again. My voice sounded weak and frightened, echoing all alone in the vast room as silence screamed back at me.

I noticed nothing unusual, but also no signs of human presence, so I took a few hesitant steps toward the very back of the room, where I assumed my sister had set up a table filled with ancestral books to comb through. "Ariana?" I kept calling out in a soft, trembling voice, hoping for any answer at all.

As I passed through the tall and wide bookshelves, I looked left and right and left again, over my shoulder, and around corners. Nothing seemed out of place. There wasn't a single particle of dust or a book removed from the shelves. When we were younger, the room would echo with the innocent laughs of two little girls as we read through tales of elves and trolls and dragons, ballads of knights and princesses, and stories of magic fairies and nymphs. We used to play hide-and-seek with Mother when she was alive, and squeal in mock fear when she found us. Now the room was eerily silent, almost mocking the memories.

When I reached the back of the room, I stopped to scour the egg-shaped sitting area. There was no sign of my sister, or that anyone had been here, except that one of the windows was wide open, and the curtains fluttered, dancing almost joyfully in the breeze.

I stepped closer to look around. Then I saw something stuck to a plush armchair – the same one in which I'd been reading _Treasure Island_ – could that only have been a few days ago?

I walked over to see what it was.

Stuck to the chair with a single hatpin was a small piece of paper, torn hurriedly, on which was scribbled these words:

 _Emily,_

 _I know more than is safe. It is not just him – he heads a criminal organization. He is coming for me. He will come for you too. Our half-brother, Dr. John Watson, lives at 221B Baker Street in London. You must flee there the moment you read this. Stop for nothing or no one. I hope to see you soon. Do not grieve if that is not to be._

 _Much love from your sister,_

 _Ariana_

 _He will come for you too._ That must mean Moriarty.

 _He is coming for me._ Oh, no. Please, no. The window.

I ran to the window, leaving the note and the hatpin discarded on the chair in front of which I had knelt to read my twin's cramped script.

Scuffs of shoe polish were visible right beneath the window, as if there had been some sort of struggle. A small, miniscule pooling of blood was on the window ledge, in the middle of which lay another of Ariana's hatpins. Tiny spots of splattered blood were stained on the curtains. Had she used her pins in defense, or had they been taken and used against her? Was she injured? Or even still alive?

"My sister," I murmured, feeling weak and fragile, as if I might crumple to the ground at any moment.

One thing was for certain: my sister was gone. I was weak, alone, and vulnerable. An easy target. It was only common sense that I would be eliminated next. I had no choice but to flee. Tonight.

I picked up the note Ariana had left as a visible reminder of my sister, even though I already knew the whole thing by heart. Running to the front of the room, I exited quietly, letting the door slip shut behind me as I scouted the hallway. Still empty. As I took off quickly but silently up the stairs, all was silent. I heard not a sound, even from downstairs.

Could it really be? I knew Ariana had enough common sense, but had no one actually heard her scream?

* * *

From beneath my bed, I pulled a cloth knapsack, much like something a reporter would carry. Into it I had room to place a few precious things. I carefully folded two extra dresses – one plain cotton, and one having silk sleeves – and placed them in the bag. Next I added the note from Ariana and three small pictures, two of me and Ariana together, one of them taken but a couple of months ago, and one of us with our mother. On top of that I placed one brass magnifying glass which Mother had given us to study wildlife, and fifty pounds in notes and coins. I had already slipped on my best walking shoes, and extra petticoats under the dress I was wearing, and I wore a dark blue velvet cloak with a pin of Ariana's, and my sentimental golden locket around my neck. I slipped the strap of the knapsack over my shoulder, blew out the single candle I had lit, extinguishing the room into darkness, and left as silently as I could.

Instead of taking the main stairs, I hurried to the opposite end of the hallway, where I turned onto the servant's staircase, which led straight into the kitchen. From the polished and worn counter I took a loaf of bread, slipping it on top of the other implements in my bag and quietly exiting through the back door.

The night was cool, but humid, and crickets chirped in a calming chorus as I hurried to the stables.

It was hastily and with trembling hands that I saddled Catherine, my chestnut mare, and as I attached the bridle she looked at me as if to wonder what could be wrong, that I would urgently need to go for a ride during the night.

I led her out of her stall, and she appeared puzzled to find that Ariana wasn't present, readying her own mare, Anne.

Catherine started prancing, feeling that something was off, and I stroked her side, quietly murmuring, "It's all right, girl. We need to go into town, understand? There's nothing to worry about." Gradually she calmed down enough for me to lead her outside and jump on, kicking her into a steady run.

I knew the gates would be shut, especially tonight, so I turned Catherine gently towards the woods, and she followed my instructions willfully. We penetrated the border and rode swiftly into the forest, tree branches and thorny bushes clawing at us and snagging my clothing, but as I led my mount toward the old path, the obstacles gradually disappeared, and Catherine's gait evened out.

After a stretch of time, the trees began to thin out, and I saw the town of Thorndon appearing in the form of some shadowy buildings ahead of me.

But I could not stay in town for the night. By morning, or perhaps even tonight, someone at the Manor would find that I was missing and send word into town. The inn and hotel were undoubtedly closed, and I'd have to catch the first train to London in the morning. I knew from Father's schedule that he had always kept handy that the 7:15 train tomorrow – the first departure of the day – was headed to the great metropolis.

Near the edge of the forest, several trees created a shelter, and on the ground was a soft bed of moss.

I stopped, realizing that I had nothing with which to tie up Catherine. "Go home, girl," I told her, knowing as I set her off in the direction of the estate that she could find her way.

I removed the knapsack from my shoulder and set it on the ground. I would just spend the night here, I decided, and plopped down upon the ground, folding my legs under my dress comfortably.

Even as active as my brain was from recent events, I could not stay up all night, and though at some point I began to shed unbidden tears for my beloved sister, eventually I succumbed to sleep underneath the leafy canopy.


	8. Ad Terra Incognita

Chapter 7: Ad Terra Incognita

* * *

A shrill whistle hit a sour note close to my head. At first I thought Ariana was attempting once again to wake me by playing my violin. "Put it down, _soror_ ," I muttered, reaching sluggishly for the blankets to pull over my head.

I found cloth, but it was strangely wet, and didn't feel at all quilted. But, God have mercy, I was far too tired to worry about a bit of water on my bed.

The same shrill note sounded again, and this time it was answered by a chorus of other noises of varying pitch.

Groaning, I forced my eyelids open. "Ariana, you –" I stopped. I was not in my bed. I was lying on top of a painfully hard tree stump on the southeast outer edge of the forest, in sight of the town. The sky was dimly lit, and the very dingy gray of early morning. Mist swirled around in many abstract shapes, touching the tips of the dewy grass, and a chorus of birds was singing gaily above my head.

Then, at the speed of the current of Hudson's Creek after a torrential downpour, the events of last night came flooding back, bringing a couple of stinging tears to my eyes.

I shakily pushed myself up to a sitting position, wiping my hands on my magnificently grass-stained skirt.

Then I realized that I probably looked like I'd been through hell. Not that that would have been at all inaccurate.

I leaned my head back, resting it on the solid tree trunk behind me. I stared up into the leafy canopy, watching as the green shapes rustled in the light breeze, chill drops of dew shaking themselves free and falling on my head.

I closed my eyes, a blissful memory from the past returning unbidden to the front of my mind.

 _Ariana poked her head down out of the tree, chestnut-brown locks falling into her face, and giggled. "Em, come on!"_

 _The identical twin of the girl in the tree sat up against a log, arranging small acorns in neat rows. And for the multiplication problem of five times four, she would need five rows of four acorns each. She was too wrapped up in her arithmetic to answer._

 _Sighing, Ariana agilely dropped out of the tree, and stood with her hands on her hips. "Em!"_

 _Emily looked dubiously over her shoulder at her exasperated sister. "I don't think it's safe, Ariana."_

 _Ariana untangled a small twig from her hair and sighed once more. "Em, you can't count on staying safe your whole life! We'll grow up and get married and move away from Mother and Father. And besides," she shrugged, "it's fun. We won't get hurt as long as we don't fall, and we won't get into any trouble as long as we don't rip our skirts."_

 _Emily stared into her sister's eyes, which pleaded for an adventurous companion, and stood up. "All right," she consented, and followed Ariana to the tree, where she jumped to grab a hold and pulled herself up onto the lowest branch, and continued to climb this way._

 _In a higher branch, Emily giddily looked down at the world below and sighed contentedly. It was actually a pleasurable experience for once to do what one wanted – and the risk was worth it._

I opened my eyes again. My sister had been the one who convinced me to change my way of thinking that day when we were seven years old. I hadn't regretted it ever since. And now Ariana was gone. I owed it to her to do everything in my power – no matter how risky – to ensure her safety, and that monster's downfall.

I undid the strap holding my bag closed, noticing the loaf of bread on top and realizing for the first time how hungry I was.

I broke off a small piece of the bread and began to eat. My mouth was dry, and I sorely wished I had some tea – or, at least, water – with which to wash down the bread, but I did not, so I gingerly moistened my lips with my tongue and took another bite, trying not to appear too voracious, even though my only company were the birds and chipmunks.

Having finished approximately half of the loaf, I returned it to my bag and fastened the strap once more, standing up and beginning to make my way into town.

Not many people were yet awake – which wasn't surprising, as the sun had not yet risen. A few young boys ran down the sidewalks, some with sticks, some with handfuls of stones. A man in a brown business suit sat on a bench by the train station reading a newspaper. As I stepped closer to him I could plainly see the headline. _Death of Sir Ashford Strikes Terror in Many,_ I read, feeling my throat constrict for a moment. It was only natural in such a small town that a sensational story such as this would be published within twenty hours of its occurrence. I didn't recognize the man, and so prayed he wouldn't recognize _me_ as the daughter of the murdered man. "Excuse me, sir," I said as politely as I could, "do you have the time?"

His eyes tore themselves reluctantly from the newspaper and fixed upon me. His eyebrows raised as he looked me up and down. Finally he pulled a golden pocket watch from inside his coat and glanced at it. "It's 6:43, miss," he said.

"Thank you," I replied with a nod, and began to walk briskly away. The hem of my dress caught my eye as I stepped over a small gap in the sidewalk. It was snagged and torn and wet and smeared with dirt. It occurred to me that I most likely looked the same all over. No wonder the man had looked at me so, he must have thought I'd wandered out of the forest after sleeping under a spell for twenty years, like Rip Van Winkle from the tale by Washington Irving.

God willing, I could find somewhere to clean up slightly. However, if it was nearly seven, I had no time. I must hasten to purchase my ticket for the 7:15 train and make sure that Moriarty could not catch up with me – _of course._ It was too easy, and yet, with luck, it would work.

Naturally Moriarty would notice this morning that I was missing. Of course he would assume that I'd gone into town and that I would have bought a ticket to London on the closest train – where else would I go? Moriarty would come into town and ask if anyone had seen me, and the ticket-seller would tell him I'd bought a ticket on the 7:15 passenger express into London. The Professor was a well-to-do man with much influential power, and he would no doubt engage a special – a private passenger train for the highest of society. My father being of the status he was, Thorndon had its own special, although I was sure it had never been used. Thus he would reach London well before I, and be able to head me off. _Oh, if I could only do it!_ I might buy a ticket for that train, but I did not have to get on it. If only I could find some way to procure a ticket for the _next_ express train to London without attracting attention.

But the first step was, of course, to purchase the decoy ticket.

I pushed as much hair as I could behind my ears – naturally my hairpins had all fallen out – and approached the ticket-seller's booth.

"Miss Emily!" he exclaimed in surprise, looking up as I came nearer. His eyes – just like those of the man in the suit – widened, taking in my appearance. "Wh-what happened to you?" he stuttered, gesturing at me.

"I had a rough night," I confessed. _Not a lie._ "And walked into town this morning," I added. _Also not a lie._

He nodded, no doubt in response to the 'rough night' bit. "And no wonder, with your father – I was sorry to hear about that, by the way." His expression had suddenly turned from shock to sympathy.

"Thank you for the condolences," I replied earnestly. "I do, however, require a ticket for the 7:15 train."

The man's eyebrows shot skyward. "London?" he said rather loudly. Then, looking uncomfortable, he lowered his voice. "Why on earth do you need to go to London?" he asked.

"To see a relative," I told him. _Not a lie._

"Is Ariana not going?"

"No, I'm afraid she's needed at home." _That_ was a lie, and I felt strangely un-guilty for telling it. And, of course, the lack of guilt made me feel quite guilty indeed.

His eyes betrayed that he wasn't satisfied with this amount of information, but he evidently knew I wasn't going to say any more, for he silently handed me a ticket in exchange for some coins and wished me good luck and Godspeed on my journey.

Suddenly I heard a couple of the boys' voices calling out a greeting to someone entering the town. _Oh, no. Inconceivable._ He was early.

But as I listened, it was indeed him. I heard his voice, asking the boys if they'd seen me.

I ducked into a side alley and crouched behind a box that smelt strongly of pigs, breathing hard. As if on cue, I heard a blessing in the form of the final bell sounding from the platform. Escalating quickly in speed, the train pulled out of the station, leaving Thorndon behind it.

I faintly heard Moriarty begin a to-the-point interrogation of the ticket-seller, who immediately revealed that I'd bought a ticket on the 7:15 train to London, which had, unfortunately, just left.

Moriarty cursed angrily and began negotiating the price to engage a special.

I saw a young boy, whose name I believed was Steven, walk in front of my hiding spot and saw my chance. Pulling him behind the crate to kneel beside me, I indicated for him not to speak loudly.

"What 'appened to yew?" he whispered.

"It's too complicated and not necessary to explain," I told him. Handing him enough coins to pay for another train ticket, I said, "Take these and buy me a ticket on the next passenger express to London, all right? Say your father asked you to buy it. Bring it straight back to me and don't say anything to that tall man over there and I can promise you an extra sovereign."

The child's face brightened at the prospect of an entire sovereign of his very own, and he eagerly nodded and skipped off to fulfill the task he'd been given.

Not long after, but before the boy returned, I heard the sound of another train leaving the station at an even higher speed. I had every part of my instincts telling me this was Moriarty's special.

Even in the urgency of my situation, I felt my heart leap. It had worked. All I had left to do was make it onto the next train without the ticket-seller noticing. Moriarty had fallen for the decoy. He was following the red herring all the way to London, and it would be hours before he realized the truth.

Just then Steven returned, breaking me out of my thoughts. He handed over my ticket, and I in turn handed him the promised sovereign, and he ran off to spend his new treasure.

I glanced at the ticket. Departure 8:30 AM 14th August, 1887. Passenger express to Paddington Station. I did not have a clue where Paddington Station was located, nor did I have any idea how close it was to my final destination – Baker Street.

Eight-thirty. If I was correct, I had just over an hour before my train left. Fortunately, this gave me time to freshen up. As I headed towards the inn on the main road, I thanked the Almighty Lord that I'd thought to bring extra clothing.

* * *

One hour later, I stood on the platform of Thorndon train station, wearing the silk and lace lined gown I had carefully folded inside my satchel, with my hair pinned up under a wide-brimmed hat graciously given to me by the proprietor's wife. I was by no means _clean_ , for there had not been nearly enough time for that, but I was significantly neater in appearance, and one might not have even linked me to the muddy, torn, bedraggled girl who had walked wearily into town earlier that morning.

The last whistle sounded sharply. The conductor gave the final warning to board. Steam poured thickly into the air, dispensing rapidly as it fueled my route to London.

By now Moriarty would have realized that I was nowhere to be found in the Great Metropolis. Not long ago he would have left to come back here. And by the time he actually arrived I would be a mere 25 miles from London.

As all this passed through my head, I stepped forward and climbed aboard the train. It wasn't very crowded; there were only a scant few men in suits. Two of them appeared to be accompanied by women, who were in all probability their wives.

My primary point being that it wasn't at all hard to find a compartment for myself, and as I locked the door and dropped my bag onto the seat, the train began to pull away from the platform, gathering speed with every second. I sat down gingerly by the window and watched everything I'd ever known slip away. I forced myself to swallow the fear I felt as I realized I had no idea what lay ahead.


	9. When In London

Chapter 8: When In London

* * *

At approximately 10:30 AM on the 14th of August, The Year of Our Lord 1887, my train pulled to a stop in Paddington Station. London at last. My entire life I had dreamt of visiting our nation's great capital, full of well-dressed theatregoers – men in tailored suits with cutaway trim, and ladies bedecked in silk and jewels. From the sights and smells and sounds that greeted me, I couldn't have been more wrong.

Before I even left my compartment, all my senses were assailed by the very essence of what London truly was. I saw from my window that the platform was utterly packed, despite the fact that the day's traveling prime was hours away. There were people of all ages, from small, scrawny children to men and women both shabby and genteel. I heard the incessant chatter of hundreds of people, including young boys selling newspapers, who were weaving through the crowd, calling the stories of the day, women calling for their children in proper and Cockney accents alike, screaming infants and shouting men who were obviously in the midst of a verbal donnybrook some distance away. I smelled what was undoubtedly oil, dirt, foul smoke, and the smell of too many bodies packed too close together.

The smell was thankfully the last of these to register in my mind. I was naturally accustomed to the dirt, having spent so much time in the forest, and also the smoke, having additionally spent time in the town, where the trains dispensed their used coal which was burned for fuel in the form of thick, black, rancid smelling smoke.

At first I brought up a hand to cover the lower area of my face. However, realizing I couldn't very well make my way through the city like this, I took a cleansing breath and lowered it.

I swung the strap of my bag over my shoulder and departed the train, taking a sweeping look at the many people crowding the platform as I descended the steps. As soon as I stepped onto the platform itself, I felt the heavy throng immediately absorb me. I was bumped and jostled, and my forehead was soon damp from the heat of the crowd. Finally I reached the entrance, and headed as quickly as I could towards the street. I saw two men leaning up against a low brick wall, one of them tall, clean-shaven, and dressed as one of the middle class – not shabby, nor especially well-to-do – and the other shorter and scruffier in all respects, and who had the distinctive look of a sailor. Both of them were smoking inexpensive cigarettes. I overheard the word "Thorndon" in their conversation, and could not help stopping to listen.

"...Haven't found out who did it," said the tall man.

"Hmph. Never will, I reckon," said the short man.

"They say Sir Ashford's business acquaintance was visiting the house at the time. Do you suppose he had anything to do with it?"

"Nah. They say he's a professor, as respectable as they come."

Respectable. The word hit me like a knife driven deep into my heart. I tasted bile, sour in the back of my mouth, and forced myself to swallow it. As if I had not been interested in their conversation at all, I lifted my head, stood straight and stiff as a sophisticated lady, and walked in the direction of a cabstand I noticed standing about 50 yards away.

I approached one of the cabbies loitering around, a portly man of average height, and told him I needed a ride.

"You on yer own, miss?" he asked in a low, gravelly drawl.

"I am," I replied cautiously. God forbid, what if he was out to kidnap a vulnerable child and elicit her virtue out of her?

Instead, he continued to lean against the spindly fence, chewing his slimy tobacco lazily. "Where to?" he asked.

"221B, Baker Street," I said clearly and directly, reciting the address from the note I had done hardly anything but stare at for most of the two hour train ride.

"That'll be 3 shillings," said the cabby dryly, standing up straight.

I carefully counted out 3 silver shillings, each to the value of 12 pence from the small pouch inside my satchel and dropped them into the man's calloused hand. He pocketed the coins casually and held open the door of the cab. I stepped inside to find a single bench, made to seat a maximum of two, a sliding window with a clear view of the front, and a seat on the back for the driver – and onto this he promptly climbed. I had never been to London, but I knew enough to know that this was a hansom cab.

As the cab started moving, I tried to pay attention to the streets we passed, where we turned, and how fast we were going. The wheels rolling over cobblestone made the cab rock back and forth unsteadily, and we couldn't go overly fast, due to other cabs and people crowding the streets. A group of children dodged the various vehicles, chasing each other merrily – not heeding the large carriages and horses that could easily crush them without stopping.

Due to the fact that I was lost in my observations, it barely seemed the fifteen minutes that it took for us to reach Baker Street. Before I had time to prepare myself for it, the cab was pulling to a halt. I stepped out cautiously, careful to avoid the muck on the street. The cab rattled off, the sound dissolving into the chaos of London, and I was left standing on the sidewalk alone.

I stared at the nondescript building of worn and faded brick in front of me. It appeared to be part of a series of row-houses, and a brass number affixed beside the door read 221B.

It seemed just like any other common building in London from the glimpses I'd seen. Was it really possible that my half-brother lived here? Growing up, I'd always thought if I had a relative living in London, they would own a fashionable, elaborate manor house by the river. But I had recently learned that London was not what I'd envisioned. Now I knew not what I should expect. Perhaps this was as fancy as London got.

Now that I had finally reached my destination, fears and doubts began to surface once again in my mind. What if no one would help me? What if I had the wrong address, or what if Ariana's information was wrong and I didn't have a half-brother at all? Ignoring my unease, and not knowing what else to do, I stepped forward and rang the bell at once.

Not a moment later the door was answered by a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties and wore a plain, flowered frock with a flour-covered apron overtop. She looked me up and down kindly, her eyes soft and gentle. "May I help you?" she asked, a faint trace of a Scottish lilt in her voice.

I thought back to the note. "Yes, I – I'm looking for Doctor Watson," I said, hoping against hope that my voice wasn't as timid and squeaky as it sounded.

"Of course, dear." She opened the door wider and allowed me to step inside. I found myself standing in a simple yet elegant foyer. An oriental carpet covered the wooden floorboards, and vases of flowers adorned the banister of the stairs. A coat rack stood near the door, along with an umbrella stand. I could not help noticing that among the umbrellas and walking sticks were an army officer's ceremonial sword and a harpoon.

My brow furrowed. What an eccentric collection of belongings!

"Do you have a card, dear?" asked the woman in a hospitable voice, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

"Er – no," I said, feeling foolish. Of course a lady of my standing should always carry visiting cards.

"That's all right," she assured me, gesturing for me to follow her up the stairs.

Wanting to remember everything about this experience, I sternly commanded myself to notice all the details I could. As we ascended the stairs, I filed away in my memory that there were seventeen.

At a landing, the woman stopped and knocked lightly on a door.

"Yes, come in!" called an aristocratic voice from within.

The kind woman, whose eyes reminded me hauntingly of my mother's, turned the knob and appeared in the doorway. "There is a young lady here for Doctor Watson," my usher reported. Then she pushed me forward, and I am fearful to hazard the guess that my mouth dropped open in shock at what I saw.

The room was lined with red patterned wallpaper. On one wall, there was a series of small round holes – almost like bullets – that formed the letters VR. A desk stood to the left of the door, cluttered with stacks of files and paperweights and knickknacks in general. On the opposite side of the room, there were bookshelves crammed with what appeared to be scientific essays, encyclopædias, and various other literary accomplishments. In the far right corner, there was a stained old table covered with many different tubes and vials and containers of liquid and powder in various shades. The sitting area was comprised of a sofa and two armchairs, angled to face the fireplace directly across the room. Closer to the fireplace, there was a wicker chair with two cushions for comfort. Objects on the mantelpiece included a single red rose, a jackknife skewering a pile of papers to the surface on which they lay, a single scuffed and worn Persian slipper, and what appeared to be a human skull.

But most shocking of all was that there were two men in the room – and they both appeared perfectly at home.

One was a tall, thin, pale-skinned man with long, spidery fingers and dark brown hair who was standing near the window by the stained table, and the other was a slightly shorter, portly man sporting a mustache. He had brown hair as well, though it was of a lighter shade, more chestnut. His deep, hazel-brown eyes betrayed kindness and compassion. I knew that if I looked into a mirror, I would find the very same brown orbs staring back at me. There was no doubt that this was the man for whom I had come.

"I don't remember you making an appointment today, Watson," said the tall man, sounding quite interested.

"Neither do I, Holmes," said my brother.

Holmes...why did that name sound so familiar?

"Are – are you Dr. Watson?" I asked, nodding in the direction of the man with the mustache. Only then did I realize that the door had been shut behind me, and I knew that there was no turning back.

"I am," he said, "and this is my dear friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

The name echoed in my head. Sherlock Holmes. And suddenly I knew where I had heard the name before. I was transported back to a stone walkway, beside my twin sister, staring at the face of the man I now knew had killed my mother. What had he said?

"There is a man whose success I have been following for some time. He has much more talent than any of the professionals, yet he calls himself an amateur...When the police find themselves with a case beyond their limits, they bring it to Sherlock Holmes, the remarkable reasoner, who can often bring cases to a close without ever leaving the comfort of his sitting room."

My half-brother lodged with the man whose attention was sought by Professor Moriarty.

"And you are?" asked my brother politely.

"Emily," I answered shakily. "Miss Emily Watson."

"A Watson." Sherlock Holmes' eyebrows were raised. "What a remarkable coincidence, eh, Doctor?"

"Quite so. Miss Watson, may I inquire what I can help you with?"

So it really wasn't obvious to him.

"You mean that you didn't know?" I asked without thinking, very much surprised.

"Know what?" he replied, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Doctor Watson," I said quietly, "I'm your half sister."


	10. Status Quo

Chapter 9: Status Quo

* * *

"You're my what?"

It was almost a full minute before he replied, looking very much like he was choking on a particularly large oyster.

"For the sake of practicality I will assume that you heard me," I said.

I noticed that Holmes' mouth was agape, and it was to him that I turned. "I was hoping," I said, "that you could help me."

Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes both snapped their mouths closed, and assumed the concerned air of helping a damsel in distress.

"Pray tell us, Miss Watson, what is wrong?" asked Holmes.

Drawing a breath, I found that I was gaining confidence in speaking, my fears shrinking by the minute. "Perhaps you have read in the newspapers of the murder of Sir Peter Ashford," I said.

Both men's faces immediately showed recognition. After exchanging a glance, they nodded slowly.

I paused for a moment before deciding to put it the simplest way possible. "He was my stepfather."

The doctor drew a sharp breath. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Watson –"

"Emily," I broke in, then added, in a prompting voice, "We are family."

He nodded at me. "Yes, Emily, but doesn't that mean that your father was..."

"The same as yours? Yes, it does. After your mother died, he remarried to my mother, Leanne. Together they had two children, twins, me and –"

"Ariana," Holmes finished for me. He had no doubt already guessed from the information in the newspapers.

I affirmed it, then settled my gaze back on my brother. "When our father died, my mother remarried to my stepfather. My sister and I were barely a year old."

Doctor Watson murmured his sympathy, but Holmes looked impatient. "Would you mind terribly, Miss Watson, if we returned to the main reason you have come here?"

I nodded. "But of course. Two days ago my stepfather was visited by a man he said was his 'business acquaintance.' Ariana and I found it obvious that this was a lie. The man was invited by my father to stay at the house for a few days. Through the course of some investigating, my sister and I discovered that the man was actually my stepfather's brother. His motives for visiting and my father's motives for lying about it are unclear," oh, I cursed how easy the lie was coming now! "but yesterday afternoon I overheard them speaking in my father's study, where our guest was accused of having my mother killed – and our guest did nothing to deny it. A few moments later, I was caught, and he was confronting my sister and I in the library when the call of murder rang out. And you gentlemen know the rest of the facts from there concerning Peter Ashford's death."

My brother appeared ready to soothe me in the event that I broke down into tears, but Holmes merely gazed at me sharply through keen eyes of steel. "You are traveling alone," he said, cocking his head as if demanding to know why.

"Yes, and you have obviously deduced that from the fact that I have my bag with me. If I were with a companion, they would either be here with me, or else I would not have my bag. If I were only dropped off here, then my companion would be headed to our hotel, where they would no doubt have taken my baggage to be deposited in my room. Thus I am here alone and with no place to stay."

Both men appeared astonished that I caught on to Holmes' parlor tricks so easily. However, Holmes quickly recovered. "Yes, but I should much like to know why you are alone, and what could have caused your trip so be so abrupt. Where is your sister?"

Here my voice broke, and I quickly blinked back tears as I said, "My sister is gone."

The two men appeared confused. Holmes leapt to his feet and began to pace with all the energy of a foxhound on the trail. "Gone?" he asked sharply. "What do you mean by 'gone?'"

"She found out too much," I forced myself to say. "She was kidnapped late last night. She left me a note telling me to flee from the house quickly, and gave me this address to come to."

"Do you have the note?" Holmes asked.

"No," I lied, "but I can quote it to you."

Why was I lying? I questioned. Did I really not yet trust them? It was merely an instinctual feeling that not all the facts should be stated in front of my half-brother. If he was as emotional as my sister and I, he would be bound to react rashly. And so I recited the note, word for word, only leaving out the bit about Moriarty heading a criminal organization.

While I spoke, Holmes had sat down in an armchair, leaning forward intensely, and looking overcast and moody as he contemplated. "Who is this he – this guest of your father's you keep mentioning?"

"We do not know his name," I said quickly, with a glance at my newfound half-brother. I did not want him involved with the matter. Not as of yet.

Holmes looked as if he would love nothing more than to argue that he could not make progress on the case without a name, however he respected my words – thankfully.

Not a second later I cocked my head, listening to a barely audible commotion from the foyer. "There is a very distressed young boy downstairs," I said.

"However could you –" began my brother. Holmes looked surprised as well.

"My dear doctor," I told him, "I have done more than my fair share of eavesdropping, particularly this week." It was, in all honesty, the truth. I felt sure I could be in a hearing contest with a jackrabbit.

Only a minute or two passed before the sitting room door burst open, revealing a small, scrawny young lad, not more than 10 years of age, pink-faced and out of breath.

"Peter!" exclaimed Holmes. "What's the matter, my fellow?"

"Wig's sick," he said fast between gasps for air. "Oi figgered oi should come fer yew, Doctor Watson." His Cockney accent was thick. I hadn't a clue what connection this child – who clearly lived on the streets – had to Holmes and my brother, nor did I know who 'Wig' was, but it seemed to spring the doctor into immediate action.

That was when Peter noticed me, and his cheeks went pinker still. "Oi'm sorry, Mr. 'Olmes, oi didn't know yew 'ad company," he said shamefully.

"Never you mind that, Pete, how is he sick?" asked my brother, reaching for his medical bag behind the table and pulling on a coat.

"Well, 'e's real 'ot, and 'e tosses and turns. Been sleepin' since last night."

I couldn't be sure, but I thought I heard Doctor Watson curse under his breath as he followed Peter out the door.

Holmes must have observed my questioning glance, for he quickly explained. "Peter is one of my Baker Street Irregulars. They are a group of young boys – orphans, mostly – who serve as the unofficial force. They are my eyes and ears on the street. Wiggins, the leader, has evidently taken ill."

"How long will he be gone?"

Holmes shrugged lightly, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair and staring out the window absently. "It depends. Most likely an hour or more."

Good. That gave me time to explain my true situation to Holmes. I had had no idea I would be seeing him, but as long as I was, there could be no harm in enlisting his help. "Perfect," I said quietly. "I am about to fill in the blanks I left in my story."

"That would be ideal," I heard Holmes say as I stood up to stretch my legs. "I can hardly take action without knowledge."

"I am sorry I could not speak freely in front of Doctor Watson. It is a matter of family, and I don't want him personally involved."

Holmes nodded. "I understand, Miss Watson. Would you be kind enough to tell me who this guest of your stepfather's was?"

I wondered how on earth he'd been able to tell I was holding back information, but I said nothing and merely sighed, thinking where to begin. "Did you read in the papers Wednesday last of the painting robbed from the Museum at the University of St. Andrews?"

He looked surprised. "Why, yes I did. A singular affair. The papers neglected to mention the man whom they suspected of being behind it."

"To avoid scandal, naturally. It was a professor, and he was removed from his post."

"This does have a bearing on your situation?"

"Yes. The man who stole the painting is my stepfather's brother. He came to my father to ask for help."

"What, then, was this Professor Ashford's motive for stealing the painting?"

"Not Ashford," I said quickly, looking sharply at him.

"Did you not say that this was your father's name?"

"Not his true surname." My voice was beginning to tremble. "He changed it to avoid connection with his family."

"Who is this family?"

I drew a breath to calm my nerves, which were ignited by the fire of rage in my heart whenever I thought of the man. "The Professor who stole the painting – that is to say my stepfather's brother – goes by the name of James Moriarty."

Holmes' eyebrows lifted in shock. I could tell he'd heard the man's name before.

"It appears that you have heard the name?"

"He is a scientific genius. He's written nearly two dozen mathematical theorems and essays, all of which are baffling to the average mind – even mine. Are you suggesting that he is responsible for –"

"I did not quote to you all of the note, Mr. Holmes. And I do have it with me." To prove my statement, I quickly moved to open my satchel, which was still by my side, and pulled out the torn piece of paper filled with my sister's rushed penmanship.

He took it from my grasp, scanning it over in five seconds. "An organization?" he said.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "I have no doubt that he gave the order for my father to be killed. He had the window opened so the origin of the bullet could not be traced."

"You seem quite confident of this fact. Can you tell me what exactly it was you heard them speaking of in your stepfather's study?"

I thought back to the conversation. Had it only been yesterday? "I suppose," I began slowly, "that I had better start with yesterday morning, when we found out about the reasons behind my father changing his name." I explained to him about Moriarty speaking to my stepfather about his 'chance for redemption.'

"And the conversation you overheard in the study?"

"The first thing I heard was Moriarty telling my father that he would regret something. I can only assume this was his refusal to help his brother out of a tight spot. The conversation progressed to my father directly accusing his own brother of having my mother killed. As I previously stated, Moriarty did nothing to deny the fact."

"But did he confirm it?"

"Well..." I mentally replayed the conversation, and repeated the most suspicious part of the conversation as I heard it in my head, as though it were just now happening.

"Why did you kill her?"

"She may have threatened me, Peter, but I am certainly not responsible for her death."

"You were always the best actor among us, James. How can I know you aren't bluffing?"

"Because having blood on my hands, figuratively, of course, would only tarnish my reputation and ruin my chances of staying out of prison."

"Then you had her killed. You can still be held accountable."

"I can neither confirm nor deny it."

He thought this over for a long moment. "Did you ever find his motives for stealing the painting?"

"No," I said. Lie! "But we did find a paper while searching my father's study two nights ago – that is to say, the 12th – that confirmed he was the mathematics professor at the University of St. Andrews. There is no doubt that it was him."

Holmes was silent, and I feared he was skeptical. "You do agree with me, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"He is playing a game of his own design," he mused softly. "I have long been aware of some distinguishing malefactor in the higher criminal world. Some large organization with many agents hidden well in various places."

I had been staring at my lap. Now I snapped my head up to stare at him. "Do you think this is it?"

"I cannot yet be sure," he said.

I leapt up from my seat and began to pace the hearthrug. I must convince him to help me. "I hardly knew my – now I know to call him – stepfather, so that wasn't the hardest of blows. Rest assured, I've endured harder. But we – I – cannot allow him to get away with taking my sister from me. He's wronged me once, twice, now three times in my life. He's taken from me the three people I love most. I'm sure you understand, Mr. Holmes, that I need your help."

"You need closure. Who's to say I can give you that?"

I pondered, not for the first time, telling him of Moriarty's interest in his career, but – perhaps selfishly – decided against it. Moriarty was for me to bring down, and even though Holmes was helping me to do it, I didn't want him to develop his own personal vendettas.

Instead, I said, "Trust me, Mr. Holmes, this is not something you want to miss being a part of. I could go to Scotland Yard, if you like."

"No," said Holmes quickly. "It is likely with them that you wouldn't succeed." As he spoke this piece of advice, I noted that his voice dripped with disdain.

"So you think it is worth investigating?" I prodded, heart pounding in my excitement.

"I most definitely think it is worth looking into," said Holmes with a slight nod.

"Well then," I said after exhaling a breath of relief, "I shall lay down our status quo."

Holmes looked seriously at me, waiting.

I took a deep breath. "He's now killed both my parents. I need your help to take down his organization, but I fear we haven't much to go on."


	11. Without His Knowledge

Chapter 10: Without His Knowledge

* * *

"What exactly is it that we know?" Holmes asked me, his voice level.

My stomach churned. I still couldn't tell him the truth, and if I did now, he'd know I'd lied to him, which might cause him to repeal his acceptance to help. Then what would I do? I'd dug myself into a hole and was too ashamed to climb out. "He taught at the University of St. Andrews, in Scotland, stole that painting, was discreetly removed from his post to avoid scandal, and came to Thorndon to ask his biological brother for help. When his brother refused, he had him killed. He runs a criminal organization, about which my sister found out, causing her to be abducted," I said, leaving out the bit about Holmes once again.

"How did you and your sister come to know he stole the painting?"

I explained about our search of Father's study and the connection we made, having observed the pamphlet in his coat pocket from the unveiling of the Vernet canvas.

"And yet you could not, despite your best efforts, discover what he wanted with the painting?"

"When we met him in the northwestern passageway we confronted him about it. He merely threatened us and wouldn't say any more on the subject."

"What did he say?"

"That we were meddling in affairs that were not our business, and that curiosity always kills the cat."

"And that was all?"

"That was all." I couldn't believe that I felt no remorse in telling the lie.

"Is there anything else I should know about this Moriarty or your stepfather's relation to him?"

"There was something about the family casting off my father because he wasn't like the rest of them, and then his changing his name to avoid being associated with his relations."

"And do you know if he ever was associated with his family?"

"I can only assume he was at some point. The traditional Moriarty estate is but twenty miles from Thorndon. Even though he was intensely antisocial, he was well-liked enough in town, and if they knew anything about his heritage, they didn't let it on."

"Did you ever visit the vicinity of the Moriarty estate?"

"No, my stepfather never allowed us more than twenty miles from home, likely to avoid our visiting the estate, but our boundaries meant we never had reason to go beyond the limits of Thorndon."

"But he never actually told you this?"

"No, it was merely a theory I had, and to my knowledge a very likely one."

"So you have nothing concretely explaining it?"

Like a firecracker exploding into the sky, Moriarty's words popped into my head.

"Your father was always into something, incurring the wrath of certain people who have been seeking a way to silence him for years. It looks as if some of them have finally succeeded."

"He said this right after the cry of murder," I told Holmes after repeating the words.

"You said your stepfather rarely left the grounds, correct?"

"Hardly ever, to my memory. But to be fair, his schedule was so seclusive that I only saw him during select parts of the day. He could have done anything while under the premise of working in his office."

"Have you any vague idea who these certain people may be?" Holmes appeared extremely interested. "Anyone with whom your father had any altercations?"

I shrugged. "As I said, he hardly left the house at all. He kept to himself, a very quiet man, and drove himself into further seclusion after my mother passed. It was a miracle if he ever spoke to anyone, let alone enough to actually have an argument. The only exception being Moriarty, his own brother, whom I suspect he hadn't seen since my father left them."

"And you have absolutely no clue who killed him?"

I shook my head. "No more than you do, Mr. Holmes. You know from the newspapers that the window was opened, and the shot likely came from 100 to 150 yards away. My father was shot directly in the head and most likely died a quick death."

Still I paced the length of the hearthrug, and I knew if I sat down again my legs would be shaking far too badly from sheer restlessness.

Holmes lapsed into silence, his head resting one hand, staring moodily into space for the next few moments. I admit that I was either too bashful or afraid to speak.

Then he abruptly stood up and pulled a rope beside the dinner table, inevitably ringing a bell somewhere else in the house.

A moment later the door opened, revealing the woman who had shown me up before. "Ah! Mrs. Hudson, would you bring up luncheon for two? Doctor Watson can eat when he returns."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson, and began to turn away.

"Oh, and Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Kindly step outside and ask the constable in front of the door to go fetch Inspector Lestrade."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and walked away briskly.

"Is she the housekeeper?" I asked, thinking of Mrs. Hunter back home.

"Actually," said Holmes, "she's our landlady."

"And who, pray tell, is Inspector Lestrade?"

"He is from Scotland Yard."

I raised my eyebrows curiously. "I thought they wouldn't be of much help."

"They can be of assistance on occasion, especially in gathering information on larger cases."

"So I see." And in fact, I rather did. "So that you know," I said, drawing Holmes' attention, "I had no clue until today that you lived here. I was only informed of this address as that of my half-brother, Doctor Watson."

"You've heard of me, though?"

Once again I remembered Moriarty's words and felt myself sicken. "You could say that," I said quietly, somewhat distracted by the sound of footsteps upon the stair, and Holmes courteously opened the door for Mrs. Hudson, who was bearing a heavily laden tray.

At the sight of the food, all traces of nausea vanished, and I realized that all I'd eaten today was the bit of bread this morning, with a cup of tea on the train.

Holmes pulled out a chair for me, and I gave him a grateful smile, sitting down. He took a chair across from me, and I took two sandwiches from the tray onto my plate. They appeared to be made with ham, cheese, and lettuce.

As I took a bite, I heard my stomach rumbling appreciatively. After I finished, I found myself wanting more, but did not think it would seem very polite, so I merely sat, sipping my tea.

Holmes studied me covertly – though I did indeed know he was watching – for a moment, then picked up the tray and offered it to me. "We wouldn't want you to remain so hungry," he said. "Please, take more."

I smiled at him and obliged, taking another sandwich and beginning to nibble at it between sips of tea.

Another minute had passed before I realized that Holmes was still staring at me.

"Yes?" I prompted him, setting down my teacup with a soft clink.

"Is there anything...else I should know about you?"

"Pardon?"

"You no doubt have an excellent eye for details. You are learned in the arts of observation and deduction. I can see that you play the violin, and are no doubt accustomed to horseback riding and other…rigorous activities."

I thought for a moment. How much was safe to say? How much could he handle so soon? I could already tell that Sherlock Holmes was not a weak man, but I surely couldn't saddle him with everything at once. "Well," I began slowly, choosing my words, "I was schooled by my mother, before her death, in the sophisticated arts of the gentry: embroidery and stitching, dancing, and etiquette – though by no means do I enjoy them. I am quite partial to horseback riding and exploring gardens, secret passageways, caves, and any other place. I love reading, and writing is a fancy of mine as well. I sketch and paint, but only landscapes - and not well, may I add." I decided that adding anything else would be a stretch.

It was then that I heard footsteps upon the stair. I cocked my head as Holmes opened his mouth to reply. "Would that be..."

Holmes pushed back his chair and went to open the door. "Hello, Lestrade," I heard him say, stepping aside to allow the man to enter.

Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, turned out to be a short but quite thin man, his eyes looking tired and his chin full of two days' worth of stubble.

"Haven't been home in two days, I see," said Holmes, looking the Inspector up and down. "The Fulson case, is it?"

"Yes indeed, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, sounding weary but alert. "And who is the guest?"

"Ah. She is the reason I wanted you to be in attendance."

"Is she a client?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Holmes then nodded in my direction, which I took as a signal to introduce myself.

I stood up and extended my hand for a shake. "Emily Madeline Watson," I said.

"As in Doctor Watson?" Lestrade's eyebrows were significantly raised.

"Yes, I am his half-sister, sir."

Lestrade took my hand, and I blushed when he kissed it. It was a sign of respect, I knew, but I had been aiming for professionalism and maturity.

"Miss Watson has discovered that her stepfather's brother, Professor James Moriarty, runs a large criminal organization. He has killed her mother and stepfather, and as far as we know abducted her sister, Ariana."

Upon linking my name with Ariana's, Lestrade's brow furrowed. "Would this be in connection with the death of Sir Peter Ashford?"

"He was my stepfather, sir," I said softly.

"My condolences," said Lestrade with a slight nod at me.

"I thought we should most likely involve the official force in a case of this magnitude." Holmes' face was very serious. "We haven't very much information to go on, I'm sorry to say."

"And why isn't Doctor Watson here?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes exchanged a glance with me before replying. "He's with a patient," said Holmes hesitantly, "but we thought it best that he not know."

"So we're proceeding without his knowledge, then?" Lestrade inquired, eyes suddenly assuming a professional glint.

"Yes, we are."

Lestrade took a seat on the wicker chair by the unlit fireplace. "Very well. What is known?"


	12. Unknown Dangers

Chapter 11: Unknown Dangers

* * *

Inspector Lestrade slowly shook his head. "An organization of crime," he said. "Holmes, you know I'll have to run this by the Commissioner's office."

"No." Holmes' voice was sharp as he rapidly met Lestrade's gaze.

"Holmes, it's a complete breach of protocol!"

"Don't you think it likely that Moriarty's organization has agents planted in numerous places, including the police force?"

"Surely you don't think –"

"My dear Inspector, how else do you imagine he has been able to pull off a scheme of this magnitude without being caught?"

Sherlock Holmes made an excellent point, and as I saw Lestrade swallow hard, I could tell that he knew it too.

"Very well. However, if I am caught withholding important information, I will implicate you, Holmes."

"Understood, Inspector."

"I should hope so. Now, there are a few details of another case I need to make sure the Home Office is informed of. With your consent, I shall take my leave."

"Thank you, Lestrade," said Holmes, nodding.

"A good day to you, Inspector," I said, smiling politely.

And with a final goodbye, Inspector Lestrade left us.

As the door shut with a soft click, I turned to stare at Holmes. "Do you honestly distrust the Commissioner's office that much?"

"I will say that Commissioner Lynch is far less inept than Commissioner Harrison was, but he still isn't the most competent of fellows in the string of them the Yard has recently seen."

"But how do you expect to progress on the case without the full support of the Force behind us?"

"It will take time," said Holmes slowly, no doubt pondering his choice of words, "and it will be a tough journey, but with a measure of strength and perseverance we will pull through the tunnel. We will make sure that light is shined upon this gruesome matter."

"How long before we know enough to put it out for the public?"

"I can tell you that it won't be any time particularly soon, Miss Watson," said Holmes gravely. "It will require quite a bit of surreptitious sleuthing on my part."

"Why not my part?" I asked indignantly. "If anything, I'm even more a part of this than you are!"

"Moriarty _knows_ you, Emily," he said apologetically, and I was surprised foremost by his use of my first name.

 _He knows you too,_ I thought bitterly, wanting to say this out loud and dissuade him from personally attempting to infiltrate Moriarty's syndicate or some such thing. Outwardly, however, I stared at the oriental carpet on the floor and stayed silent.

"Until we can plot a safe and thorough course of action, however," Holmes continued suddenly, bringing me back to the reality of the present, "I suggest we wait for the good Doctor to return."

* * *

Days passed like sand slipping into the bottom portion of an hourglass, and over the next week, I found myself observing with interest and even growing used to the living habits of my half-brother and the rather eccentric Sherlock Holmes.

It was upon the afternoon of the 21st of August that I found myself alone in the flat; even Mrs. Hudson was busying herself at the flower stands of Covent Garden or some such place. I was pacing the hardwood floor of my bedroom, a cheerily decorated spare room at the top of the stairs Mrs. Hudson had kindly prepared for me, and allowing my mind and imagination to wander, in lieu of the answers I wanted so desperately but did not have.

Holmes had hardly been present at 221B Baker Street since the day I had arrived. I hadn't a clue what he could be working on, or if he'd discovered anything pertaining to the Moriarty case. If he had come up with anything at all, I should like to be informed. And if he was on a different case entirely, I would relish the opportunity to give my idle brain a challenge of any sort.

How could I find out without asking him directly? Of course _._ His desk, where he kept (as far as I knew), all records and correspondence pertaining to his current cases.

Snooping did happen to be what I did best...

I had made up my mind. Slipping into my shoes so as not to trod in anything in only my stocking feet, I turned the doorknob and stepped into the upstairs hall.

As soon as I set foot in the hallway, I could sense some presence in the house. Silently, I shut the door and crept in the direction of the sitting room.

The door was already slightly ajar. I pushed it open to survey the scene and froze, staring at the man sitting casually on the sofa with his legs crossed, smoking, as if he were here every day.

"Hello, Miss Emily," said Professor Moriarty.

Cautiously, watching for even a single one of his muscles to twitch, I entered the room, staying near the door, which I had left open. "What the blazes are you doing here?" I asked, hatred filling my voice.

He chuckled. "Mind your language, Miss Emily. You thought I didn't know this was where you'd gone?"

I was silent, looking around the room for a possible weapon should I need one.

"I admit you had me at first," he continued. "Buying that decoy train ticket was a very nice touch. I had no idea what you'd done until I returned to Thorndon and tested the ticket master's memory even further."

I swallowed, only just managing to keep myself from springing forward to do as much bodily harm to him as I possibly could. It wasn't much, considering my small and reedy body. "Holmes knows."

Moriarty raised one eyebrow as if in questioning. "How much does he know?"

"What are you talking about?" I admit that my voice shook.

 _You know exactly what he's talking about,_ I chided myself silently.

"Did you tell him about his great-great-great-uncle's painting?"

"Yes."

"So he knows why it was stolen, correct?"

My mouth didn't seem to remember how to work. "No," I finally said.

Moriarty's mouth twisted into a sort of wry smile. "I thought not."

"You never answered my question," I said coldly. "Why are you here?"

"It is to warn you, Miss Emily," said Moriarty, grinding out his cigarette in an ashtray sitting among scattered papers on the side table. "It would pain me to have to take action against your curiosities. I do not wish to reunite you and your sister in that way."

My heart began to pound even more painfully than before. "What have you done with her?" I asked in a low, menacing voice, still barely controlling my rage.

He chuckled, a deep, menacing sound I had hoped to never hear again. "Do not worry yourself, your sister is still alive, Miss Emily. She is in a safe place, where she will be prevented from causing any more trouble."

"Get. Out." I snarled in anger. "You will pay."

Moriarty picked up his hat and cane from where they rested beside the door. "But not today," he said with a conspiratorial wink as he swept past me into the hall.

I stared after him with venomous eyes as he descended the stairs with surprising agility.

"Good day, Miss Watson," he called almost jovially as he opened the door.

I made no reply as he shut the door behind him. Crossing to the window, I pushed aside the curtain and watched Professor Moriarty step into a waiting carriage, and speak something to the cabbie, who tugged at the reigns and jolted the team of horses into a quick trot.

Watching the man I loathed slip away once again, a lump formed in the back of my throat.

With a silent curse, I dropped the heavy drapes and sank shakily onto the floor.

I had hardly shed a tear since coming to Baker Street – in fact, I had not cried since the night I escaped Thorndon Hall.

And so, not knowing what other action to take, I began to sob.

Sometime later, I heard Mrs. Hudson return and retired to my bedroom, saying that I had a slight headache, and no, she should not send for my brother to return from his club.

Collapsing onto my bed, my tears were renewed and the floodgates opened.

I felt vulnerable, helpless, and there didn't seem to be anything I could do.

* * *

 _I need to set myself free,_ I decided a few hours later, as I sat on my bed with my shaking hands clenching my skirts tightly.

It might be too late to completely mend the mistake, but it would do it no good to keep it a secret forever, and it would certainly be worse if he were allowed to discover the truth on his own.

Since Moriarty could evidently get into the house without any problems, I couldn't go on putting others at risk. Holmes needed to know the whole truth.

Wiping the traces of tears from my eyes and my sweaty palms on my skirt, I left my bedchamber and silently made my way to the sitting room.

I entered to find John, my dear brother whom I had already grown to love, seated on the sofa – in the same seat Moriarty had occupied just hours before.

"Is Holmes here?" I asked timidly when he looked up.

"I am afraid he is not," said John, putting down his newspaper to study my face intently with a physician's critical eye. "Are you quite all right, my dear? You've missed dinner entirely, and you look deucedly pale."

I shook my head. "I'm fine, thank you. There was merely something I wished to discuss with Holmes. Do you have any idea where he's gone, or when he'll be back?"

"I don't. May I help you?"

I replied in the negative once again. "No, thank you," I said. "Please don't bother over me."

And without further explanation or words of any kind, I turned and left the room, descending the stairs and having every intention to wait for Holmes in the foyer – all night if I must.

At the bottom of the steps, I very nearly collided with Mrs. Hudson, who was carrying a stack of freshly cleaned and pressed linens.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, reaching out an arm to stop her, "Did Holmes happen to tell you anything about where he was going, or when he'd be back?"

She smiled apologetically. "Not a thing, dear," she said kindly. "He was just up and out the door, off on some foxhunt of his, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said.

Sitting down in the upholstered chair by the coat rack near the door, I curled my legs up under my skirt, settled into a semi-comfortable position, and began to wait, my eyes beginning to droop as the grandfather clock counted the minutes as they passed with a steady _tick, tick, tick._

* * *

I awoke to a gentle hand shaking me on the shoulder. When I opened my eyes, I started, suddenly fully awake, to find Holmes bent over me, concerned, his Inverness cloak soaking wet.

"What on earth happened to you?" I asked, alarmed.

"I took an unexpected dip in the Thames," said Holmes flippantly, with a wave of his hand. "Now, I take it you were waiting down here because you wished to speak to me when I returned? It must be urgent, if you would wish to accost me almost as soon as I walked in the door, and if you have been here long enough to fall so deeply asleep." He knelt down beside the chair. "Pray tell me, what is the matter?"

The entirety of the reason I had been waiting here came back to me, and I took a breath. "It's to do with Moriarty. And the painting. And you."

Holmes' eyebrows raised in surprise, though his perfectly controlled attitude showed no other outward signs of it. His face remained otherwise passive, gazing intently at me with sharp gray eyes, the very color of cold steel. "With me?"

I took in another deep breath and nodded. "Moriarty came to visit this afternoon."

The eyebrows raised even higher. " _Here?_ "

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the ground. "He said he came to warn me to stay off the case, that he does not wish to do to me as he did to Ariana."

"And did he say what that was?"

"Not specifically. He said he did not kill her, but that she was in a safe place where she would not cause trouble."

"Emily, why did you not send a message to Scotland Yard immediately?" The tone of his voice was urgent.

I averted my gaze for a long moment before looking up to meet his gaze. "Because there was something I needed to tell expressly you."

"What is it?"

His voice had taken on a softer and gentler quality than I'd ever imagined could be possible for him.

I opened my mouth and hesitated. Was I doing the right thing? _Yes,_ I told myself sternly. _Now speak._ "I confess that I lied to you, and I cannot blame you in the slightest if you do not feel you can continue to help me after this."

Holmes' brow crinkled in confusion. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Claude Joseph Vernet was your great-great-great uncle."

Surprise and shock lit up Holmes' face. His voice suddenly dropped as he leaned closer to me in an urgent manner. "However did you know that?"

"Moriarty told me," I said, voice trembling.

"Today?"

I shook my head, chestnut-brown curls falling in my face.

"When, then?"

"When Ariana and I met him in the passageway. He revealed that he stole the painting in hopes of attracting your attention."

"Why did you not say anything before?"

I dropped my head again. "I admit that I was foolish. I wanted Moriarty to be mine, and solely mine. I did not take into account that even though I had obtained help, I might be putting those I had enlisted in needless danger. Until today."

Holmes studied me in silence for a moment before answering. "I thank you for telling me. Now you had best get up to bed; it is after midnight."

I glanced up at the clock and realized for the first time that the great hands were indeed pointing to nearly half past twelve.

I rose and turned to go up the stairs, but Holmes stopped me. "We will make this an effort between us," he promised.

I nodded wearily and climbed the seventeen stairs to my bedroom. I only hoped this would indeed turn out for the best.


	13. The Absentee Statesman

Chapter 12: the Absentee Statesman

* * *

Two more weeks yielded no results in terms of the Moriarty case – at least as far as I knew. I watched Holmes' clients come and go from a distance, being asked not to present myself to them, as they likely did not know who I was, nor would they have any interest in speaking in front of me. I believe that I was also separated from the Genius Detective's business because of a measure of danger which was present. From what I could tell, Holmes greatly respected me and my desire to revenge myself upon Moriarty, and did not want me to put myself in extra jeopardy. It was at least comforting that he did not doubt my capabilities.

After heavily discussing it, Holmes and I had decided to merely tell John that Holmes had uncovered no leads pertaining to my stepfather's murderer, and that we had handed over the case and the matter of finding Ariana to the police, as Holmes was taking on many other cases from various clients.

On the 4th of September, Holmes was engaged in a chemical experiment of some sort, and the room was filled with rancid smoke. In an attempt to clear my head, I was preparing to go out for a walk in the nearby Regent's Park. The weather was cool, so I pulled on a fleece-lined cloak. Mrs. Hudson had quickly seen to it that my wardrobe was updated to be fit for the city.

I stepped out the door and – once I had shut it behind me – began to descend the steps. I was almost immediately approached by a man who had cropped dark hair and a rather blunted face and was crisply dressed – I did not think he could have been over the age of thirty. "Excuse me, miss, would that be number 221 you just left?" He spoke with a strong accent that I recognized as Russian, seeming quite frightened and speaking anxiously.

"Why yes, it would," I replied cautiously. "Were you looking for it, sir?"

"Yes, I am, miss. It is the residence of Sherlock Holmes, is it not?"

"It is."

"May I come in, then? I have found myself placed in a terrible situation."

"Certainly. I will show you up to the sitting room, Mr. ..."

"Koval," he replied. "My name is Dmitri Koval."

I entered 221B once more and showed our visitor to the sitting room, where Holmes was excitedly bending over the acid-stained table. I was relieved to see that the smoke had dissipated quite a bit.

Pausing in the doorway, I announced the client, whose hands, I observed, were twitching nervously and slick with sweat as they toyed with his tie. "Holmes, this is Mr. Dmitri Koval. He is very much in need of assistance."

Holmes straightened and swept over to shake Koval's hand jovially. "Good afternoon, Mr. Koval. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my loyal friend and associate, Doctor Watson. Beside you is the doctor's sister, Miss Emily, who has shown you up. You are a political aide, I see?"

My observational powers were strong, but I confess I had no idea how Holmes had deduced such a thing. Apparently, neither did Koval. "Mr. Holmes, how in the world did you know that?"

"Your tie and shoes, of course!" exclaimed Holmes, as if the answer should be plainly obvious.

"Do not mind him, Mr. Koval," advised John. "He quite enjoys showing off. Pray take a seat and explain why you have come."

I was turning to leave, and perhaps take my walk, when Holmes stopped me. "Emily, please stay, if you would not mind. You brought this gentleman to us, I think you have earned the privilege of learning the particulars."

Rather flustered by this, I shakily consented and proceeded to take a seat beside my brother.

"I must ask you three to agree to let nothing I have said leave this room," said Mr. Koval, fingering his tie once more.

"Of course it will not," I assured him, confirming the fact by eyeing my two companions until they nodded.

Koval nodded, satisfied. "Good. The matter is of a political nature, and quite delicate. I'm afraid if word of it got out, it could very well cause a war."

I drew back slightly, alarmed at the brevity and importance of the situation.

"Mr. Koval, may I ask what on earth has happened?" inquired Holmes.

Our client drew a deep, calming breath before speaking. "I am here from St. Petersburg as an aide to the renowned Russian statesman Alexei Ivanov. We were sent in an attempt to establish a peaceful liaison in your government. However, the visit has taken a terrible turn as of this morning."

"How so?" asked Holmes, leaning forward to better absorb information.

"Mr. Ivanov has been kidnapped, Mr. Holmes," said Koval urgently.

Holmes leapt up and began to pace, much as he did the day I presented the circumstances of my case to him. "Approximately what time did you find this to be so?"

"About eight o'clock this morning, Mr. Holmes. When I came downstairs to collect my mail from the concierge desk, there was an incredibly eccentric and anonymous note among them, appearing to follow some sort of code, and asking for a ransom. It alarmed me very much, so I got a spare key for Mr. Ivanov's room from the desk. I went in and discovered the room empty. There were no signs of a struggle, but he had vanished. There is no word of him arriving at the Foreign Office this morning."

"Have you gone to the police, Mr. Koval?" asked Holmes. "They would be more prepared to deal with this delicate matter than I."

"They would not look into it," said Koval, shaking his head. "They said that the note must surely be a joke of some kind, and that since everything in his room was in place, Mr. Ivanov must have merely gone out somewhere in the city."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "We must accept this as a possibility, I'm afraid. May I see the note, Mr. Koval?"

"Of course." From his inside coat pocket, Koval drew a plain envelope, addressed in block letters to one Dmitri Koval, of room 214 at the Northumberland Hotel.

He handed the envelope to Holmes, who studied it intently before opening it to peruse the contents.

"Is the entire note in block lettering?" I asked Holmes as he stared at the single sheet of paper.

"I am afraid so," said Holmes regretfully. "There is nothing to be deduced from the writing itself. The paper is the hotel's own stationery, and the language used in the note is quite...nonsensical."

"Read it out loud," I suggested. "Perhaps we could all together make something of it."

Holmes cleared his throat and began to read.

" ' _Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _Drink and the devil had done for the rest—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _Admiral Benbow has the answers at best—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _The treasure you'll give me to add to my nest—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _Search for my name on my very own crest—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _I'll bet you can't find me before the inquest—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _And if you bring help I'll kill my dear guest—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!_

 _Good luck and good day, and may you be blessed—_

 _Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!' "_

My eyes went wide as I recognized the first four lines. But when John opened his mouth to speak, I thought that he at least would understand from whence it came. "May I ask who in the world Admiral Benbow is?" he inquired, brow furrowed.

I inwardly groaned. A modern adventure story, a tale of pirates and treasure – of course most grown men had not read it. "Actually, the Admiral Benbow is the name of an inn. That and the first four lines of the note are taken straight from Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island._ "

"So are you saying that we must go to this inn to find the answers?" Holmes asked me, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"That isn't possible," I replied promptly. "The inn is a fictional location. I believe the author of this note intended it to mean that the answer lies in the story of _Treasure Island_ itself. And since no one else here appears to have read it...perhaps I can be of assistance on the case."

* * *

Sighing, I rearranged my skirts for what felt like the millionth time and remembered Holmes' instructions. I was to alert the police of the matter concerning the disappearance of Mr. Ivanov and then make my way to the Northumberland Hotel to question the member of the hotel concierge whom Koval had told us was on duty when the ransom note was delivered.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, which seemed to mock my idle mind with each repetitive tick-tock. I had been waiting in the Commissioner's office for nearly three quarters of an hour.

I had been trying to sit politely on the settee I had been shown to by the meek and petite young secretary, but I was far too restless. My curious mind wanted to know more about Chief Commissioner Lynch. Almost as if I were unable to control my own limbs, I found myself standing up and walking over to the cluttered desk.

A lead bust of Benjamin Disraeli, a former Prime Minister, was being used as a paperweight, holding down a thick stack of official looking documents. I picked it up and skimmed some of the papers.

" _I do not wish to impose upon your Majesty's evening, but the situation is really quite desperate,"_ I read from one of the pieces on top. It was written in miniscule, hurried script, and appeared to be a discarded draft of a letter to Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself. I would have read more, but I really had no idea how much longer I had before Lynch arrived.

With another quick look at the time, I bent down and tugged on one of the desk drawers. I cursed under my breath. It was locked. The next one, however, opened under my touch. It was filled with what looked to be outdated parliamentary debates and...a gun.

 _How odd,_ I thought. Why would _this_ drawer be unlocked rather than the others?

As I frowned at the mystery now brewing in all corners of my mind, the door of the office suddenly opened. Heart pounding in the back of my throat, I immediately shot to my feet.

In the doorway stood a fair-skinned, dark haired boy of average height. He stood, arms crossed and head tilted to one side, staring at me with his eyes narrowed. "I'm sure I have no desire to know what you're doing," he said, shaking his head rather amusedly.

I had no idea who he was, but I had more than a sneaking suspicion that he could easily get me into trouble. "I can explain," I quickly blurted. "I was just –"

The boy held up a hand. "No need." He stepped forward and extended his hand. "Andrew Lynch," he introduced himself. "And you are?"

"Emily Watson," I said, taking his hand.

Andrew Lynch lifted it and kissed it. "I trust you are here to see my father, Miss Watson?"

"I am," I replied.

"Well, I cannot help but wonder what sort of errand might cause you to come here. Outside of my father's secretary, I have never known any female to enter this room."

I cocked my head, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "I think you've formed enough questions," I said.

"Do I not get any answers from you?" he asked, again sounding quite amused.

"That was another question," I informed him. "And I do not believe my business is any of yours."

Andrew's face held an expression of mock offense, and his voice betrayed that he was perhaps a little impressed. "My, I have come across a feisty one."

I adjusted my hat, staring him straight in the eye. "It's how I get what I want. Now it's my turn to ask a question or two."

Andrew stood still, waiting.

"Does the Chief Commissioner's son often loiter around Scotland Yard?"

"I am not loitering, I am helping my father."

"And how do the officers take to that?"

"You have not answered my questions about yourself, why should I oblige?"

"Well, I have one more inquiry that does not pertain to you."

"All right." His eyes glinted with a hidden fire.

"Will I be able to see your father today, or should I come back? I do have pressing business elsewhere."

"It depends. How pressing?"

"A life could hang in the balance."

"Well then, I would suggest that you take care of that first and come back tomorrow. My father should be in after half past two."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said, and headed towards the door.

Andrew took a step in my direction. "Wait. Who sent you here?"

I paused. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Andrew's face showed disbelief. Using the leverage of the moment, I wished him a good day and walked briskly down the hallway.

* * *

Though I had never before been there, I could pick out the massive hotel the moment I stepped out of the cab. It stood out boldly from the other nondescript buildings along Euston Road. I stepped inside the elaborate lobby and my eyes widened. The floor was of gleaming marble tile, and it perfectly reflected the image of the shimmering chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

I was the only possible patron in the room, so the concierge at the desk looked up right away when I entered.

"Can I help you, miss?" he asked, closing the ledger that he appeared to be updating.

"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Lambert, would you happen to know where he is?"

"I haven't seen him all day, ma'am. Maybe I can help you?"

I shook my head vehemently. "I must insist that I speak with Mr. Lambert directly."

The concierge looked uncomfortable. "I can't leave my post, ma'am, but you could check the employee's lounge down this hallway here." He gestured at a hall entrance behind him, and I made my way behind the desk and towards the lounge.

I opened the door marked Employee's Lounge and immediately stopped.

A man with a nametag reading Lambert was lying in the middle of the floor, face up and frozen in shock and maybe a bit of pain. There was blood, spreading in a pool from under his head. I knelt and reached down to touch Lambert's wrist. He was, of course, dead, but his skin was still warm.

I stood up and nearly ran out of the room and straight into the concierge from the desk, who had apparently been curious enough to leave his post after all.

I glanced at his nametag. "Mr. McAllister, would you happen to have a telephone I could use?"


	14. The Scene Of The Crime

Chapter 13: The Scene Of The Crime

* * *

"You were the one who discovered the body?"

I barely heard the police inspector's inquiry. I was too busy attempting to peer past him and into the room where Lambert's body lay exactly as I had found it. There was something dreadfully familiar about the entire scenario. The moment I had first entered the lounge and spotted the dead man, an image had clicked in the back of my mind. Another man, lying still in a pool of blood, killed with a single gunshot to the head, albeit to the front instead of the back.

Sir Peter Ashford. My stepfather. The only difference here was that there was no open window. The bullet's origin had clearly been inside of the room.

"Miss?"

I started, broken out of my train of thought. "Excuse me?"

"Did you find the body?" he asked again, pencil poised over his official notebook.

"Oh. Yes, I did, Inspector," I replied faintly.

The man, who had cordially introduced himself as Inspector Gregson, nodded briskly and scribbled down my response with incredible ferocity. After he had finished writing, he fixed his blue-eyed gaze on me. "Miss, if you would please head towards the lobby, we can commence our investigation. We will come find you if we require anything else."

I was opening my mouth to explain what I was doing there when Inspector Lestrade came walking swiftly down the hallway towards us. His tense posture and the fact that he was out of breath betrayed that he was embarrassingly late. "Gregson, let her be. This young lady is acquainted with Mr. Holmes and the doctor."

"Don't be so preposterous, Lestrade, she's only a girl! Not even fifteen years of age, if I judge correctly!"

I raised my eyebrows. "Actually, I am fifteen," I interjected coldly.

Gregson stared at me, not quite sure what to make of my bold interruption of their conversation.

Lestrade moved closer to me, practically pushing Gregson aside. "Now, Mr. Holmes has stopped to question the members of the hotel staff. He and the doctor will be along directly. If you do not mind, Miss Emily, I would like to speak with you alone."

He gently took my arm and guided me a ways down the corridor. "I did manage to speak to Mr. Holmes for a couple of minutes when I arrived," he muttered. "He informs me of the reason you were sent here. I understand that the dead man was personally given the ransom note and instructed to pass it on to Mr. Koval?"

I nodded, crossing my arms and looking around us uncomfortably. "There's something else," I replied.

Lestrade nodded.

I sighed. "You've seen the photographs from my stepfather's study, haven't you?"

"I have."

"Well, the scene in there reminds me very much of his death. I noticed it the moment I found Mr. Lambert. It isn't like a normal crime scene. It's far too neat."

"And how many crime scenes have you personally seen, Miss Emily?"

I averted my gaze. "Not many. But I am almost positive that they are far more chaotic than this. In case you haven't noticed, the only real evidence is the body."

"You think the same person was responsible."

"Yes."

Lestrade sighed. "This man, Professor Moriarty, might be running an underground criminal syndicate, but that does not mean he's behind every crime in London. You're seeing him everywhere, Emily. It's common, believe me. But don't worry."

"Inspector, did Holmes tell you about the ransom note, and what I was able to glean from it?"

"He did inform me of it, yes."

"I have a very intuitive feeling that that note was meant to attract my attention. It was taken from the very book I was reading the day that Moriarty arrived in Thorndon."

"And tell me: how could he have known what you were reading before you even met him?"

"I can't know for sure. What I do know is that during his time at Thorndon Hall before Ariana's disappearance, he seemed to know things. He was able to have knowledge of our conversations even if he'd been all the way across the house at the time."

Lestrade tightened his lips grimly. "I am sorry, Miss Emily, but professionally, I cannot allow myself to be persuaded of this theory until we find evidence which points in that direction."

And with that, our conversation ended.

I let out a frustrated breath. How could I be the only one who saw how cleanly the pieces fit together? It seemed impossible that others could be so ignorant. The connection _was_ there. It was plain as day, really.

I took off my hat and ran a hand through my carefully pinned up hair, allowing a few strands to fall loose from the clips that held them in place.

Turning around, I scanned the small crowd of police officers who were weaving back and forth, comparing notes and examining – but not moving – anything which might be evidence. Behind a very young constable, I saw Holmes and John, making their way purposefully in my direction.

"Are you all right?" asked my brother, taking me tenderly by the shoulder, concern filling his deep brown eyes.

I glanced quickly over his shoulder. Holmes was already busy with the scene, and was in conversation with Inspector Gregson, waving his hand dismissively at something that was said and brushing past anyone who stood in his way to kneel near the body.

"I'm perfectly fine," I said, meeting John's gaze. "I have seen dead bodies before, as you are aware."

He nodded. "Good. Now, my presence is most likely needed in there, so..." he began to walk away, but then turned and held up a firm hand in my direction. "Stay here," he instructed, and was lost in the tidal wave of officers.

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the wall for a moment, then I sighed exasperatedly. What the devil was I doing? This body pertained to a case that Holmes was allowing me to help with. It was only fair that I be present in the room.

And what if there was some other piece of evidence in there? Since it was obvious that this was connected to Ivanov's disappearance, it might pertain to _Treasure Island_. In that case, I was the only one who would be able to decipher it.

I waited until Gregson's back was turned before silently slipping past two constables who were arguing about how to archive a police statement.

Holmes was examining the room, so close to the far wall that his nose was almost pressing against it.

Lestrade was standing a couple of feet back from him, arms crossed and watching his actions with intense interest. He must have noticed me out of the corner of his eye, for he turned his head and winked at me, beckoning me over to him. I crossed the room, my line of sight inevitably falling on the body, by which John had knelt, and was examining the eyes and hands.

"Doctor Watson told me he instructed you to stay in the hall," murmured Lestrade, his gaze switching between Holmes and my brother.

"I can help you," I protested. "There might be a clue in here, alluding to _Treasure Island,_ and without me you'd completely overlook it."

Lestrade raised a hand to massage the back of his neck, biting his lip uncertainly, but in the end he agreed to let me stay.

When Holmes finished examining the wall, he turned to speak to Lestrade, finding him with me. "Emily!" he exclaimed in an unnecessarily loud voice.

On hearing my name, John started and looked up. "I specifically told you to stay outside!" he admonished.

"You need my help," I said, practically pleading, and that's when I noticed it.

The area of flooring around the body had a different outline compared to the rest of it. It seemed to be a square all of its own. "Can we move the body?" I asked urgently, kneeling down beside the seam in the wood.

"Doctor?" Lestrade inquired.

My brother caressed his mustache thoughtfully. "Only if it is concealing vital evidence," he said.

I nodded. "Then we need to move him to the side. Haven't you noticed he's lying on top of a trapdoor?"

Holmes' eyes traveled to the floor as if to the first time. Lestrade gaped at him. "You could've told us, eh, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes looked sheepish. "I glanced at the body, but I was saving the floor for last. I find it's always best to search a room from the ceiling down."

"Or from the floor up," I argued with a cocked eyebrow. "You might very well tread on a clue, looking up at the stars."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and called to some officers around him. "McFarlane, Kingston, help the doctor move the body," he barked to the two constables I'd passed on the way in. They quickly hoisted the body and set it down nearer to the opposite wall according to John's instructions.

The majority of the blood had pooled in the space where the body had been. But there was a trapdoor visible, the latch coated in sticky red liquid. Gregson had entered the room out of curiosity, and he stood watching with us as Lestrade knelt to open the door, wiping his now bloody hand on his pants. "Third pair of ruined trousers this month," he muttered under his breath. "Betsey will be furious."

The latch lifted, and in a depression in the floor sat a single box. It was about the size of a travel trunk, and both Lestrade's and Holmes' best efforts were needed to lift it out of the hole.

Holmes examined the lock. "Certainly it will require a key," he concluded.

I massaged my head. It appeared a clever scavenger hunt had been prepared for us. "Have Lambert's pockets been searched?" I asked.

Lestrade's eyes held a spark, but this time Gregson made sure he was the first to speak. I sensed a strong rivalry between the two Inspectors. "Kingston, search his pockets," he ordered with a determined air, shooting a triumphant smirk at Lestrade.

The order was carried out, and as Kingston's hand plunged into the dead man's breast pocket, his face lit up, and he extracted a worn bronze object, which Lestrade promptly snatched from him.

He handed the key to me. "Emily, please do the honors, I feel I owe you something for not believing you at first."

I accepted it gratefully, kneeling and inserting it into the lock and turning clockwise. The lid sprang open, and at first glance it appeared to be empty. Then I looked at the bottom and saw a rolled up piece of paper and a small box, as used for jewelry. Holmes picked up the paper and unrolled it, revealing a map of the world. I lifted the box and opened it. Inside were eight silver coins.

I inhaled sharply. "Pieces of eight," I said softly.

Examining the coins, I noticed that each one had a view of a different city, which was labeled on a scroll at the bottom of each piece. There was London, England; Bern, Switzerland; Madrid, Spain; Belfast, Northern Ireland; Oslo, Norway; Rome, Italy; Reykjavik, Iceland; and Rabat, Morocco.

I looked at the map which Holmes held before him. "There's an inscription at the bottom," he informed us.

"What does it say?" asked Gregson.

"X marks the spot."

Suddenly, I had an idea. "Holmes, lay that map down on the floor. Over here, where there's no blood."

He did so, and I set to work matching the cities on the coins to their respective locations on the map. Soon, I found that the eight markers made up the image of a lopsided letter X. I sat back to look at it. "X marks the spot," I said, looking up at the men who surrounded me.

"But what does that mean?" asked Lestrade.

"The center point of the X is London. Therefore, the so-called treasure we seek is in London."

I stood up and allowed Holmes to take a look at the map. Looking around me, I saw a familiar face in the doorway and strode over to greet its owner.

"Hello, Mr. Lynch," I said.

"Miss Watson," he said, nodding at me casually as he leaned against the door frame. "What might you be doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," I returned promptly.

"My father brought me along to observe, but we had barely arrived when he was called away to meet with the Prime Minister. Your turn."

"This is where I needed to be after meeting your father. I had an urgent matter in which I needed the dead man's help."

"So that's what you meant when you said that a life could hang in the balance."

I very nearly blushed at the knowledge that he remembered my words. "Actually, I wasn't talking about him," I said as we stepped into the hall together. "I was speaking of the diplomat Alexei Ivanov, who has been kidnapped, as you may know. Ivanov's aide hired Holmes to find him, and Mr. Lambert may have had crucial information as to Ivanov's whereabouts."

"My father mentioned the case being brought in by the aide this morning," replied Andrew as we began to stroll back towards the lobby. He was perfectly calm, as if conversations like this were as normal as the results of the week's cricket matches. "He could not allow resources to be wasted on it right away. He said there were too many variables."

"Yes, because the room had not been at all disturbed," I said, remembering what Koval had told us.

Andrew nodded. "And there was every possibility that the note was merely the work of a prankster."

I caught his eye seriously. "I hope no one is still convinced of that."

We entered the lobby, and were immediately accosted by McAllister, the man who had been at the concierge desk when I first came in. "Miss Watson?" he inquired.

"Yes?"

"This was just dropped off for you at the desk," he informed me, holding out a plain envelope.

"Thank you," I replied with a nod, and swiftly broke the seal with my fingernail.

I pulled out a single sheet of foolscap paper, on which was written a few words in thin, spidery script which was all too familiar to me.

 _My dear Emily,_

 _You have fallen into the trap I have set to engage you. I assure you that going any further will only put you in unnecessary danger. I implore you to let it go before this brings you too close to the answer._

 _Sincerely,_

 _J. M._

"Mr. McAllister," I said urgently, "who gave you this?"

"He was tall, dressed in a suit and hat, scariest eyes I've ever seen. He just left." He nodded at the door, towards which I turned sharply.

Andrew, out of curiosity, peered in that direction as well.

The door was still swinging slightly on its hinges, and as I watched, I could just see a tall figure wearing a top hat disappear into the crowd on the street.


	15. Confessions and High Connections

Chapter 14: Confessions And High Connections

* * *

Andrew stared at my face worriedly. "Emily, are you all right?" he asked, guiding me to a settee as the blood drained from my face and I went ghostly pale, suddenly feeling faint.

I took a gulp of air and breathed deeply before answering. "Yes, I'm fine," I replied, surprisingly not bothered by his casual use of my first name.

"What's in that letter? Who is it from?"

I had no idea what made me do it, but I sank forward with my head in my hands and allowed Andrew to take the note from my loose grasp. I covered my face and finally permitted frightened tears to fall from my eyes as he scanned the contents of the single page.

"Emily," said Andrew softly after a moment, "who is _J. M._?"

"His name is James Moriarty. He formerly held a position as the Professor of Mathematics at the University of St. Andrews, in Scotland. He is my stepfather's brother, and..." I trailed off, nearly choking on the massive lump in my throat.

"And?" prompted Andrew Lynch gently.

I took another steadying breath. "And he killed him."

"He killed your stepfather?"

I merely nodded. Everything inside my head was so terribly confused. Why on earth was I detailing the nature of a confidential case to a boy I'd only met today? There was something about him that made me believe that he could keep a secret forever. And he was the son of a high-ranking police official. I decided to keep talking. It felt rather good. "He also kidnapped my sister for finding out too much. I know what she knew, so he's after me as well."

Even though I was still hiding my face, I could picture Andrew's lips tightening and I could feel the cushion of the settee pressing flat as he leaned back. "Let me guess: you came to London to ask for Holmes' help."

Again, I nodded, gasping as a wave of tears escaped me.

"Why didn't you bring this to the police first? Holmes is only an amateur. Scotland Yard can give you protection."

"When I came to London, I didn't even know Holmes lived at Baker Street. All I knew was that my half-brother, Doctor Watson, lived there. I couldn't stay at my stepfather's estate or else risk being in even worse danger. My sister, Ariana, left me his address to flee to. I was concerned with finding the only family I had left, not notifying the police."

"But why didn't you come to us after you settled at Baker Street?" He spoke as if he were himself an official member of the Force.

Finally, I lowered my hands from my face, exposing my shamefully tear-stained cheeks to Andrew. I noticed for the first time how his sapphire-blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the light, and how he wasn't bothered by the fact that his dark brown, shaggy hair was falling over his left eye. I tore myself away from his physical qualities and spoke. "Because Moriarty is running an organization of crime. He only eludes the police because he has his own agents placed within their ranks. We do not know who among the officers of Scotland Yard is really employed by a more sinister force."

Andrew was silent for a moment before replying, his voice barely above a whisper. "So why are you telling me?"

There it was. The question which I could not answer, not even for myself. It was as if some invisible lever was controlling my mouth, and I had not been able to stop myself from pouring out everything to him. I began to stutter, finally getting out a full coherent sentence. "I...I don't know." The tears began to fall again. I felt but could not see through my blurry vision Andrew's steady hand being tenderly placed on my right shoulder. I was truly shocked that I didn't move away from it.

Was this the beginning of a romantic attachment? I couldn't be sure, for I had never experienced such a thing before. I didn't know what to make of it. Any idea that I'd had of what love was had died with my mother, and any remnants of that had disappeared with Ariana, leaving me with no idea how to process emotions like this, and being rather uncomfortable with the prospect.

But even as I thought this, I let his supportive hand remain where it was.

* * *

The next evening following dinner, John had gone out to his regular officer's club, and Holmes and I were left alone. I was perusing the _Evening News_ when Holmes bounded up the stairs and tossed my waterproof cloak into my lap. I saw that he was already wearing his Inverness to defend himself against the heavy rain which had been falling like an endless hail of bullets for the past hour.

"Where are we going?" I would have asked where _he_ was going, but he had handed me my cloak for a reason.

"Pall Mall," he answered.

"Is there a reason we need to go there in this weather?" I asked, jerking my head in the direction of the window.

"My brother lives there."

I stopped. Holmes had a brother? "You have a brother?" I inquired incredulously before I could stop myself.

"Yes, Mycroft. He is seven years my senior and works in Whitehall, auditing the government books. He has dealings with and is an influential part of many departments. In fact, there are occasions when he _is_ the British Government."

Not knowing what to say in reply, I obediently slipped on my cloak and followed him downstairs. He held me back inside while he hailed a cab, and when he waved me out, I pulled up my hood and bravely stepped into the barrage of the elements.

The cab ride was silent for the most part, until we passed through Grosvenor Square. Only then did I catch Holmes' eye. "Have you made any progress on the Moriarty case?" I asked him, trying and failing to keep the high hopes out of my voice.

"I have been spending a good deal of time in Scotland Yard's archives, pulling files of crimes never completely closed, which may have some bearing on his organization."

"But do we have a man inside the group itself?"

He shifted his weight and met my gaze earnestly. "Emily, in all probability, that will take years. The agent could never be accepted right away. He'll have to ease his way into Moriarty's trust. And as for his possible connection to Ivanov's disappearance...well, as Lestrade told you, there's no definite proof of that."

I felt a knot form in my stomach as I realized that I had never showed him the note from yesterday. "Actually, I have to show you something that might help to prove just that," I said, reaching deep into my pocket to pull out the envelope, which I had carried with me nonstop since I had received it.

I handed it to him, and after he spent a few seconds reading it in the ever dimming light, he cleared his throat and fixed me with a gaze so serious that I became very frightened in that moment. "When did you get this?"

"Yesterday, at the crime scene. McAllister, from the concierge desk, gave it to me. He said a man fitting Moriarty's description delivered it. He had just left when I got to the lobby."

Holmes placed the letter and envelope on the seat beside him and leaned forward, his expression still grim. "Emily, this is nothing to Moriarty. Killing his own blood, causing chaos among the official ranks – it's all an equation to his mind. There are many things that are imbalances. They will be eliminated at all costs. We are all his pawns in a very dangerous game. Do you understand this?"

I nodded numbly, unsure what to reply.

"So you understand that you need to step back and keep yourself as far away from the danger as possible?"

No. This wasn't happening. He knew that I was planning to find Ariana myself, and he had done nothing to hold me back before. Why now? One thing was for sure, I was not going to back out.

"What difference will that make?" I challenged. "I can't forget what I know. It's what I know that makes me a danger to his equation. I'll be in danger either way."

"All I have to do is put in a word with Lestrade, and you'll have protection. We won't let him get to you."

What was I doing? I might not be giving up, but I didn't need to let Holmes know that. Putting on my best uncertain face, I averted my gaze for a moment before looking back at him, filling my eyes with the fear that I truly felt. "All right," I said quietly. "I'll let it go. I promise."

He nodded his approval, but I wasn't finished. "But can I please do what I can to help you find Mr. Ivanov? I promise not to get involved as far as Moriarty goes."

Holmes thought for a moment, fingering the edges of the envelope beside him. "I suppose it couldn't do any harm," he finally said. "In fact, Alexei Ivanov's disappearance is the reason we are going to see Mycroft."

"What connection would he have to all this?" I asked.

"Mycroft has many useful contacts within the Foreign Office," said Holmes as our cab pulled up to a nondescript brick building. "As I explained, he deals with virtually every part of the government."

Holmes leaped out of the cab to offer me a hand down. I accepted, shivering as the icy cold raindrops began attacking me at once, stinging like the impact of a thousand frozen knives.

Sherlock Holmes paid our fare and the cabbie drove off, most likely to put his horse down for the night. No one else would want to risk going out, anyway.

We entered the building, which, I was surprised to discover, was far more sophisticated even than Baker Street. It looked almost identical on the outside.

The walls were of a deep red, covered with stripes that tapered off into spirals at the ceiling and floor. Polished bronze gas lamps were installed all around the room, and the carpet appeared to be of authentic Persian origin. There was a chair and a table by a set of stairs. The chair was covered with luxurious velvet upholstery and the table was made of deep brown cherry wood.

A young maid not much older than myself timidly took our wet cloaks and showed us up the stairs.

"This house is quite...impressive," I murmured to Holmes as we ascended the staircase.

"Indeed," he replied. "The British Government pays a fine sum for Mycroft's position."

We entered a sitting room just as elegant as what I had seen downstairs. The door had been opened by a very tall, very portly man, clean shaven, whose suit jacket and tie were off and who was clutching a respectably thick file of papers. "Sherlock," he greeted his younger brother cordially, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ah, this is the good Doctor's sister, then?" He took my hand warmly. "A pleasure, Miss Watson."

Mycroft directed us to sit down in a couple of armchairs by the fireplace. I sat down on one of them politely, Holmes taking the seat beside me.

"It was quite the unintelligent move by Scotland Yard to ignore the case concerning Alexei Ivanov when it was offered to them on a silver platter," said Mycroft, sinking down wearily into the chair across from us.

I wrinkled my brow, leaning in towards Holmes. "You told him why we were coming?" I muttered.

He shook his head. "Not a word."

Mycroft nodded. "So I am correct in my deduction," he concluded knowledgeably.

Holmes met my eye. "I must have forgotten to mention it," he said to me, "but my brother possesses deductive capabilities even greater than my own."

The elder Holmes snorted. "Please, Sherlock. I am not the one who elected to be a detective. Now, why have you come to me about Ivanov?"

"His aide, as you have deduced, came to me yesterday. He said that he had received the ransom note and had Ivanov's room checked at approximately eight in the morning, and that he had inquired at the Foreign Office, but there had been no sign of him. As you have said, the police refused to look into the case until there was more substantial proof that he had been abducted."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, alarmingly nonchalant. I supposed by now that this attitude ran in the family. "I have met with Mr. Ivanov – earlier this week. It was the day he and his aide, Mr. Koval, arrived, to be precise. On an official capacity, Mr. Ivanov was sent by some of the more peaceful liberals in Imperial Russia to form a liaison between the British and Russians in order to resolve the childish squabbles over land in Central Asia. On a completely different level, however, I am afraid that my department of the Foreign Office has discovered evidence that suggests that Ivanov has ties to a number of Russian Revolutionary groups, many of which are being harbored here in London."

I knew just enough about foreign affairs to know what he was saying. "But considering recent relations between ourselves and the Russian Imperial government, wouldn't an Imperialist associating with Revolutionaries be good news for our cause?" I asked.

Mycroft turned his head to look at me. "While the knowledge could certainly be used to our advantage, the British Government is even more concerned with justice than we are with land," he explained. "If we kept it to ourselves, we could very well use it to regain the favor of the Imperialists, but all the same, what Ivanov was doing was treason. It would be a conflict of interest, to say the least."

I looked over at Holmes. His eyes were serious, and he sighed heavily, meeting my gaze. "Emily, what my brother is trying to say is that some government officials are already convinced that the Russian government discovered Ivanov's involvement with the Revolutionaries and arranged for him to disappear."

My head was spinning with this cornucopia of information. "Did our government tell them?" I asked after a moment.

"No, they did not, Miss Watson," replied Mycroft somberly.

And suddenly I knew where this was inevitably headed. I sharply inhaled, meeting Holmes' eye again. I could tell from his gaze that he knew what I was thinking. "Mycroft is the most trustworthy man in the British Government, Emily," he said. "I have informed him of our little situation. Feel free to speak what's on your mind."

Mycroft gestured with his head in agreement.

"I assume, then, that Moriarty somehow caught wind of it."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up in alarm and he held up a hand. "Sherlock, you are insinuating Moriarty's involvement in this? Is there something I do not know?"

The younger Holmes nodded and pulled my letter out of his pocket, handing it to his brother. "While at the scene of Lambert's murder yesterday, Emily received this missive."

Mycroft's eyebrows continued to raise as he read and reread the few lines of careful script.

Once I saw it fit to continue, I did so. "If Moriarty employed the use of his agents to uncover this information, he could have relayed it to the Imperialist Russians, who would then become convinced that we were withholding information from them. They would also arrange for Ivanov, an apparent traitor, to mysteriously vanish. But they would not allow our official government to find out about it – they would have us continue to believe that Ivanov had been abducted by terrorists, and possibly have more ransom notes delivered, a sure way to con our government out of their money."

Both men caught on to what I was saying. "And the British Government would undoubtedly pay the ransom, convinced that they were keeping the information secret from the Russians for the safety of the Empire," said Holmes.

 _Surely,_ I thought, _Mycroft will alert the government of this?_ "What do we do with this information?" I asked, hoping to gain that very answer.

Mycroft's eyes glinted in a way eerily similar to his brother's. "We play our hand discreetly," he said. "We pay the ransom demand when it appears, then catch these agents in the act."

Holmes smirked to show that he concurred with Mycroft's plan. "And for now," he said, "we wait."


	16. Come Alone

Chapter 15: Come Alone

* * *

I could not help but feel that I was a part of something special. It might not have been the best way to phrase the feeling, since a man was dead, another missing, and a criminal mastermind behind the underlying layer of espionage and blackmail, but I suppose that for the first time, I felt as if I could do something of importance.

The next day I awoke feeling anything but refreshed. My sleep had been plagued with my worries and demons, and I had lain awake for hours wondering how I could go about working on the Moriarty case without Holmes' knowledge.

Finally, when I heard John ring Mrs. Hudson for breakfast from down the hall, I rose from my bed and dressed myself, not bothering to pin up my hair.

I joined my brother at the table and filled my plate with fried eggs, oat cakes, and kippers, and eating quietly, discovered that Holmes had gone to alert Lestrade of the progress we had made.

After I had cleared my plate as hastily as possible, I announced that I was going out. It was obvious to John from the tone of my voice that I did not want to disclose where I was going. And so, with his brief nod of consent, I grabbed a cloak to protect myself from the chilled breeze and left for Scotland Yard. But not to see Holmes and Lestrade. I would have to steer clear of them, for I was going to see Andrew.

* * *

The challenge began the instant I entered the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. I walked through the doors just in time to witness Lestrade leading Holmes toward the Criminal Investigation Department's reception desk, the two of them talking animatedly with each other. Even though they were in deep conversation, the room was not very crowded at all, and I felt sure they would notice me. Panicking, I dove behind a potted plant, peering through the somewhat sparse foliage at the two men. Holmes seemed to be looking directly at me, and I prayed that he was not wondering why the plant had eyes and appeared to have a petticoat stashed behind it.

After a few moments of waiting, the men were presented with a key, which appeared to be for the archive rooms, for according to a sign which was affixed to the wall, that was the direction in which they immediately headed. I let out the enormous breath I had been holding and stepped out from behind the large plant. Standing right in my path was Andrew Lynch. His hands were on his hips, and once again he appeared extremely amused at my antics.

I jumped. "Andrew!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" My voice came out much squeakier than I had intended, and I instantly reprimanded myself for it.

He sighed. "Emily, don't pretend you didn't come here to see me," he said. "I am not an idiot."

"I – I didn't think you were," I said quickly, stammering more than I should have been.

"What can I do for you?" he said, cutting to the chase.

I bit my lip. "What happened at the crime scene? I need to talk to you about what I said."

Andrew's lips tightened. "Emily, please. You must let me tell my father."

"No, Andrew. I don't trust people easily. I can't even say that I know why I'm trusting you. No one can know about this. I promised Holmes I'd keep it confidential so that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. I've already disobeyed that order enough. But now that you know, I feel obligated to keep you up on it. You may call Holmes a petty amateur, and he may be that, but remember that I am the one who associates with him every day. Trust me when I say that he knows what he's doing."

Through my entire speech Andrew stood there, staring at me, as if wondering if my bold and brave personality could really be living inside of the short, skinny country girl who stood before him. I had a feeling I had rendered him speechless.

Finally, he opened his mouth again. "My father is appearing in front of parliament this morning," he said. "We can talk in his office."

He beckoned for me to follow him up several staircases until we reached the same office I had been waiting in just two days before. It suddenly occurred to me that I had never actually met with Chief Commissioner Lynch. But the police now knew about Ivanov, so it was no matter. It gave me a sense of satisfaction that I was working on the case on an official capacity, while Scotland Yard had completely waived their opportunity to gain full privileges.

I appreciated the fact that Andrew sat down beside me on the settee rather than sit professionally behind his father's desk.

Carefully, I told him about what had been said at Mycroft's last night, not omitting a single detail.

Andrew's eyes did not stray from my face as I told the story word for word. They did not widen, they did not narrow, and he did not speak until I was finished. Once I had completed my narrative concerning Moriarty's involvement, his eyes blazed. "If you are so determined to orchestrate his fall," he said, "I would love to help you."

I sighed. "Andrew, I do not want to bring anyone else into this. It is only putting them in unnecessary danger. But I am forced to admit that I need the help of someone who will not shield me or hamper my involvement."

His blue eyes were filled with compassion and most likely concern. "I will not hamper your involvement," he said, "but I am still not fond of you becoming involved on this case without any professional assistance. Emily, I –"

It wasn't until much later that I would know what the rest of Andrew's sentence would have been, for at that moment there was a sharp, precise knock on the office door, and it was opened by none other than Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"Emily!" exclaimed Holmes at the same time that Lestrade exclaimed, "Miss Watson!"

Andrew leaped out of his seat, face pale. He ran his hands through his shaggy hair. "W-would you be looking for my father, Inspector? He's out, you know."

"Yes, I know, lad," Lestrade replied dryly. "Your father asked me to come by and pick up a file on Ivanov's career from his desk. He thought it might be helpful to Mr. Holmes. Now, Emily, what in blazes are you doing here?"

"And alone with Lynch's bird-brained son!" added Holmes harshly.

Andrew averted his gaze, and I felt obligated to defend his intelligence and disposition, though I didn't. "I don't think that's any concern of yours," I retorted icily, pushing past Holmes and out of the room, shooting an apologetic glance at Andrew, who was still in the room, looking as if he'd like nothing more than to disappear.

I walked swiftly down the hallway, keeping my eyes on the ground. What on earth was happening to me? I had just backed out of a confrontation without saying anything for myself. For perhaps the first time in my life, I had failed to stand my ground. What would Ariana say? I thought myself a coward. I may have been a little harsh on myself, but I made a pact that such a thing would _never_ happen again.

A coward. I couldn't be a coward. The true cowards were criminals, hiding behind their tough exteriors, shielding themselves from whatever it was they feared most. Did this make me as despicable as them?

A chill ran through my veins. That would mean I was on the same level as Moriarty. No. Absolutely not. I inhaled sharply through my teeth and shook my head furiously. _Get a hold of yourself,_ I thought firmly.

Still furious with myself for a combination of leaving the room and then believing myself a coward, I briskly strode down the stairs, following the same path Andrew had led me along not too long before. I was surrounded by people. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. Finally, I saw the doors in front of me. I pushed on them and found myself outside. Careful not to take in too much of the stench, I breathed deeply in and out for a moment, gaining my bearings before deciding to walk around the area in order to clear my head.

I hadn't even made it to the end of Whitehall Road when I heard footsteps behind me. They weren't like those of the others around me, however. They belonged to someone exceptionally tall and skinny. They were running, and out of breath, no doubt trying to catch up to me. I knew who the footsteps belonged to long before I turned to face them.

"Holmes," I said calmly, my hands at my sides.

"Emily, what the hell is going on?" he asked, his cold gray eyes betraying that this was more than a serious inquiry. It was an interrogation.

I sighed, preparing to tell him the truth, albeit the quick version. "I met Andrew when I was waiting in the Commissioner's office two days ago," I said. "Yesterday, he was at the crime scene." At this point I noticed that Holmes' lips tightened, as if he was thinking that Andrew had had no right to be there. I ignored him and continued. "He was there when I received the note from Moriarty, so he is partially informed of the matter now." I said nothing about the fact that I had told Andrew of my own free will, nor that he was completely informed. Holmes did not need to know that.

"Andrew Lynch cannot be trusted," said Holmes. "He will betray you. I am warning you because you will get hurt."

He was wrong. Andrew couldn't hurt a fly. He wanted to help me. I trusted Holmes, of course, but he didn't know everything.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but you're wrong." And without saying another word, I turned and began to walk again, even faster this time.

I felt it beginning to rain, and the cold drops hit me, making me shiver. But I did not care. I slowed my pace just long enough to glance behind me. The streets were clearing substantially because of the rain, and Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

Shivering again, I bowed my head and continued walking, not stopping an unbidden tear from sliding down my cheek. If anyone saw, they would not be able to distinguish it from the raindrops.

* * *

I do not know how much time had passed before I finally looked up to see where I was.

Although it was undoubtedly still daylight, everything was much darker. The rain was still falling, but I could not see the sky at all. And the stench...it was far, far worse than it was in other parts of the city. The odor of unwashed bodies and rudely dumped waste was everywhere. The water cascading from the sky, rather than cleansing the streets of the permeating redolence, was making it even more unbearable.

There was no doubt that I had found myself in the slums of the East End. This was where the majority of the London crime reports came from. Penniless women called dosses, turned out of the workhouse with nowhere to go, resorted to prostitution for a meager source of income. Families in poverty killed their children in order to have fewer mouths to feed. Drunken, jobless husbands returned home late every night to senselessly beat their wives beyond recognition. All this, and yet it was sadly where the police force opted to send the fewest patrollers.

I considered asking someone for directions on how to find my way to the nearest train station or cabstand, but the characters roaming about seemed to be of the most unsavory kind. Men were lounging against walls, wearing threadbare waistcoats and shoes filled with holes, smoking homemade cigarettes or chewing on toothpicks. One man standing near the entrance to an alley was doing something most unmentionable to a woman in a shockingly low cut dress.

I stood rooted to the spot, hunching my shoulders and shrinking back into the shadows, hoping to make myself invisible. Finally, a constable in a dark, silver-buttoned coat and heavy boots rounded the corner. Cautiously, I stepped out of the shadows and ran over to him. "Excuse me, Officer," I said, "I was walking from Whitehall, and I'm afraid I lost track of where I was. Could you tell me how I could get to the nearest cabstand?"

The constable looked me up and down in surprise. "Now what's a respectable young lady like yerself doing all alone over here on Gower Street?" he asked.

I blushed. "Exactly what I said, sir," I replied.

He sighed. "Well, the Commercial Road's just up this way." He gestured with his thumb. "I'll tell ya what: my patrol's about to take me up there. Why don't you let me escort you? No one'll harm ya then."

I accepted his offer with profuse thanks, and we set off at a brisk pace in a direction I believed might be north.

When we arrived, it was still dingy, dim, and damp, but I was relieved to see at least more traffic on what appeared to be one of the main roads in eastern London.

"Let me call ya a cab," said the officer.

"Oh, no," I protested. "I'm sure I can manage. Thank you for the offer, though."

I turned to head for the cabstand, but he grabbed a hold of my arm. "I've seen things while walkin' my beat, Miss. Things so cruel they make my blood boil at the very thought. The least I can do is extend a helping hand to a respectable girl in need." He pulled from his pocket a few precious silver coins, which no doubt he had planned to use to buy a glass of brandy and a bite to eat before finishing his shift.

"No, you can't – I have money..." I said, shaking my head.

"Nonsense," he said. "Where are ya goin'?"

"Baker Street," I replied. Awestruck by the civility and compassion of this man, I watched, slack-jawed, as he strode over to the cabstand and spoke a few words to one of the cabbies before beckoning me over.

"Now, you see to it this lass gets there safe," he warned the cabbie, waving his truncheon threateningly and dropping the coins into the man's hand.

The cabbie nodded, wide eyed, and clambered up in his seat to drive the horses.

Constable Smith, as his embroidered lapel identified him, opened the door for me, and I stepped inside. "Thank you, sir," I said, smiling at him gratefully.

He smiled back. "It was nothin', Miss," he returned. "Perhaps we'll meet again."

And as he closed the door and the cab drove off, I confess that I hoped he was right.

* * *

When I was dropped off in Baker Street, just two houses down from 221, the rain had finally subsided, leaving behind deep and murky puddles.

The door was unlocked, and I entered. At once Mrs. Hudson was upon me, taking my sopping cloak and hat. "Mr. Holmes was here, but he left looking for you! Thought you'd ended up somewhere terrible – like the slums, heaven forbid!" she shuddered. "I'll send off a telegram right away to let him and the doctor know you're safe. In the meantime, that client of Mr. Holmes's is waiting upstairs. I've sent up some tea. Have some to warm yourself up, dear."

Out of her entire monologue, one sentence stuck out in my mind. _Koval was here?_

As soon as she was finished with her hovering, I dashed up the stairs to the sitting room. It was empty. The tea tray was indeed on the table, and a half empty cup suggested that Ivanov's aide had been here, but it appeared that he had left very suddenly.

Beside the tea tray, a single piece of foolscap paper lay discarded. I picked it up and read the missive.

 _6_ _th_ _September, 1887_

 _West India Docks_

 _You will deliver the sum of 10,000 pounds to a boat called the Old Buccaneer by half past five o'clock this evening in exchange for the safe return of Mr. Ivanov. Come alone and bring the money, or rest assured you will die._

 _J.M._

Oh, _no._ Where on earth would Koval have gotten 10,000 pounds so quickly? He would've had to steal it, unless, of course, he didn't actually have it. He was planning to go without the money. Which meant, of course, that he would end up dead, and Ivanov would not be returned. In all probability, the ransom price would rise even higher.

I glanced at the wall. It was exactly five o'clock. I stuffed the note into my pocket and, thinking of a desperate situation, grabbed John's loaded revolver from his desk and stampeded down the stairs. "When Holmes comes back," I called to Mrs. Hudson, "tell him to meet me at the West India Docks. And say to look for a boat called the _Old Buccaneer._ "

The long-suffering landlady opened her mouth to protest my leaving, but I was already out the door and waving down a cab.

I promised the driver an extra sovereign if he could get me to the docks in fifteen minutes. He looked at me as if I were asking him to take me to Utopia, but he didn't object. Even at the ridiculously fast speed the cab was driving, it couldn't arrive at the dock entrance fast enough for my satisfaction.

However, when it stopped, I was informed that it had been fifteen minutes exactly, and, too rushed to bother to confirm whether or not it really had been, I handed the man his extra sovereign as promised.

I bolted down the slick wooden piers, careful not to lose my footing but also looking out for the boat named in the letter.

Finally, I saw it. It was small, hardly more than a sailboat or a river barge. As of now, it appeared to be deserted. There was nothing for me to do but wait. I crouched behind a pyramid stack of large barrels and carefully drew the gun from my pocket. It was then I realized that it was my first time holding a firearm.

I glanced at it curiously and studied its different parts. It seemed simple: I would disengage the safety lock, aim at my target, and press my finger down on the trigger. It couldn't be any more complicated than archery, at which I excelled.

Peering through the stack of containers, I saw that this stretch of the dock was still empty of anyone worth noticing.

I'm not sure how much longer it was, but eventually I saw Holmes and John dash into the scene, looking about them wildly. John was weaponless, and didn't look happy about it.

I raised my head just above the barrels and beckoned to them.

Holmes saw me, and within seconds, all three of us were pressed together behind a single stack of shipments.

"What in heaven's name are we doing here?" hissed Holmes. "And why do you have Watson's revolver?"

John groaned. "That's why I couldn't find it. Give it back!"

I sighed. "I got back to Baker Street and was told by Mrs. Hudson that Koval was waiting upstairs. I went up to see him, and he was gone, but he had left this on the table."

I pulled out the crumpled note and handed it over to Holmes, reluctantly giving my brother's gun back as well.

"The imbecile is going to get himself killed!" muttered Holmes, handing the note to his companion and biographer.

"Holmes, it's five-thirty exactly," said John grimly, glancing at his pocket-watch.

We all peered anxiously through the dim haze, and saw a lone figure climbing onto the boat, empty handed.

Holmes stood and poised his own weapon. "Koval, stop!" he called.

Before the young and supposedly intelligent diplomatic aide could react, there was the tinkling of broken glass from above us, and Koval fell forward. There had been no sound of a gunshot, but dark and sticky blood spilled from the back of the man's head and spread onto the deck of the boat around him.

John rushed forward and clambered onto the boat, kneeling and turning the man over. "Holmes, he's dead," he announced after a moment.

In that moment, I saw Sherlock Holmes look weak. He sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers as if to assuage some ache.

I understood his behavior, for although it had not directly been his fault, his client had died.


	17. See No Evil, Hear No Evil

Chapter 16: See No Evil, Hear No Evil

* * *

If the sun had indeed been in the sky when I arrived at the docks, it had long since disappeared. I had no cloak, and the temperature was dropping as the evening wore on, causing me to shiver as I swept my gaze over my second crime scene in as many days.

Inspector Lestrade was standing at the edge of the pier with Holmes at his side. John was a couple of feet away from them, interjecting into Holmes' statements whenever he felt the need. I saw Gregson, who had interviewed me at the hotel, was standing over the body, writing in his notebook. I had already given a Sergeant who had identified himself as Collins my statement, and now I stood silently against the wall of the warehouse behind the pier, watching the proceedings.

The chaos of the scene seemed confusing, but as an eyewitness, I had no trouble in seeing what had occurred. Moriarty had placed an assassin in the window of the warehouse in case anything interfered with the plan. When Koval had appeared empty-handed, the assassin had carried out his order to shoot. The real mystery was the kind of gun he had used. There had been no sound of a gunshot.

Holmes and John both appeared shocked by this fact, but I had encountered such circumstances twice before. I didn't know how to explain it any more than they did, but I did know that my stepfather had died in the same way. And logically, so had Lambert, the concierge employee. All other concierge members and guests in the building had told the police that they had heard nothing but a horse trampling a dog outside.

It was more than a little disconcerting that I had half of the pieces to the puzzle. I knew, could sense, that there was a picture hiding just beyond my reach. No, it was more than disconcerting. It made me angry.

Having nothing else to do, I allowed my eyes to canvas the scene once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone new arriving. From the look of his clothing, I guessed it was Chief Commissioner Lynch. My speculations were confirmed when I saw the silent, demure boy following him.

"I do sincerely hope none of you have touched the body since arriving here," called the Commissioner in a stern, bellowing kind of voice.

He swept on past me to peer at Koval's lifeless form, but Andrew hung back. Gradually, he drifted over to where I was standing. He didn't meet my gaze, nor did I attempt to meet his.

Finally I had to break the silence between us. "Andrew, I'm so sorry about earlier. I should have said something, and I definitely shouldn't have left like that. I just –"

Andrew still didn't look at me. "Just forget about it," he mumbled.

"But I –"

This time his gaze connected with mine. His eyes were hard. "I said forget it," he snapped.

I took an involuntary step back. "All right. I'm...sorry," I offered quietly.

He lowered his head for a moment and ran his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. "I'm the one who should be apologizing," he said at last. "I should have been more respectful to you."

I was thoroughly confused. Was that standard etiquette? All he'd done was temporarily lose his temper, and only in a verbal manner. I had done it myself. "I think I can forgive you," I said in reply after considering the thought.

He nodded. "And about this morning – I understand. I would have done the same thing in your place."

I studied him for a moment. "They're all jealous of you, aren't they?"

Slowly, Andrew nodded again, looking as if it was the last subject he wanted to discuss. "As much of a help to the Force as Holmes is, he's still an amateur. A mere consultant. Not all his cases are from the police. I think he envies me because I've seen more official police scenes than him. And as for Lestrade...before being promoted to Inspector, he spent the majority of his career behind a desk. I may not have seen as many crime scenes as him quite yet, but I'm barely sixteen years of age. Because of my father, I'm treated as a part of the Force, even though I'm far from it."

His voice wavered for a moment, but he quickly cleared his throat and pretended as if it hadn't happened.

"I suppose you've seen a lot, then?" I inquired. "For your age, that is?"

He looked up. "You could say that." He studied my features much as I had studied his. "I already know I am correct in saying that you have, too."

I tightened my lips, trying not to concentrate on the memory of just yesterday, when I had lost control of my emotions and poured out nearly every circumstance of my life to him.

"And it's not just what you told me," he continued. Honestly, I wished he would stop before I began to cry. "It's in your eyes. You're young, but your eyes are old. Yes, they still sparkle, but they speak of horrors the like of which many have never imagined."

Andrew's words hit me with a pang to the heart. I turned my head away as I wiped a salty tear from my eye.

When I turned back, Andrew was looking straight at me. "You know you're allowed to cry, right? You're a woman. Sometimes I think it's practically encouraged."

I shook my head vehemently. "No, Andrew, I'm not. I am thoroughly ashamed of the way I opened up yesterday. I don't mean to be blunt, but I hardly know you."

He shrugged. "What would you like to know?"

Once I stopped to think about it, I was surprised to discover that I had no questions to ask him. After all, it wasn't like our relationship was anything more than slightly friendly.

Andrew looked for a moment as if he were going to prompt me to speak, but then he grabbed my arm and pointed wordlessly, mouth hanging open in shock.

My gaze followed his finger. "Oh my God," I mouthed.

On the side of the building to our left, two words were printed in white, painted block letters: Canary Wharf. But that was not what had attracted Andrew's attention. A huge, blood red letter X had been painted over top of the already existing words.

X marks the spot. A chill ran through me. I had been present at the scene at least two hours, and I was prepared to swear on my own life that the X had not been there before.

We both stared in amazement at it for a moment before Andrew's mouth began to work again. "D-Do you think we should tell someone?"

I glanced at the pier and the boat. Everyone was preoccupied. No one seemed to notice the dripping red X that had appeared on the wall without explanation. "No. They all have far bigger things to worry about, and besides...I have a feeling that was left there for me to find. Come on." I moved soundlessly towards the wall across the cordoned off street, beckoning for him to follow.

He did so, still awestruck. About halfway across the street, he stopped me. "Emily, what if that's actually blood?"

I rolled my eyes. "Andrew, really. It's not like I haven't seen human blood before. I sneaked into my first crime scene, for goodness' sake, and the body belonged to my stepfather. Now are you coming, or not?"

Anyone else would have thought that Andrew was the frightened one, but I knew better. He was being chivalrous by attempting to shield me.

I reached the wall first. The paint, or whatever it was, was still dripping.

Assuming the manner of an investigator, I boldly reached out two fingers and smeared some of the liquid onto them. It was sticky and dark. I supposed it still could've been paint, until I lifted the fingers to my nose and sniffed. The smell was slightly metallic.

"It's blood," I said, turning to Andrew.

He swallowed hard and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to me so that I could wipe the blood off my fingers. As I did so, the sensation made my skin crawl. I had no idea whose blood that was. Whether it really was human or not, it had once belonged to a living, breathing creature.

Holding in a shiver that was not from the chill of the evening, I turned back to the wall, tilting my head and attempting to see it logically. No, now it just looked like a cross. I straightened my head again. Why would it have been left here in the first place?

I closed my eyes, thinking back to the last time I had seen an X like that.

"There's an inscription at the bottom."

"What does it say?"

"X marks the spot."

"...The center point of the X is London. Therefore, the so-called treasure we seek is in London."

That was it. My eyes flew open, and I barely registered that Andrew was standing beside me, arms crossed, observing my face as if waiting for me to come up with something. "Andrew, you're taller than me, can you see which brick is at the center of the X?"

He nodded and peered up at it. "Wait...it's loose!" he exclaimed.

Triumph and excitement coursed through my veins in the form of adrenaline. "Can you reach it?"

"I...think...so." He stretched his torso and stood on tiptoe until he could just reach the brick in question. He grabbed onto it using his handkerchief, as the blood was still far too wet and slippery. He set the brick down and then looked at the empty space left behind. "There's something in there. I can't quite reach it, though."

I looked around us quickly for something that could aid us. "What about one of those boxes?" I suggested, nodding at a stack of shipping crates nearby.

Andrew immediately moved to go get one. Judging from the way he picked it up, the crate was empty. He set it down and agilely climbed on top. This time, the reach for the brick-sized cavity appeared much less strenuous. In less than a minute, he had withdrawn his hand, bearing a small cigarette case.

Looking rather unsure, he handed it to me. I confess that my hand was shaking slightly, and it took me a moment to still its unbidden movement before I could open the tiny box.

Inside was a small scrap of paper, neatly folded. I picked it up and unfolded it.

I have aroused your curiosity, haven't I? You will not be staying off this case as instructed, if I am correct in guessing. Perhaps you remember what I said to you and your sister about that curious cat. You will pay the price.

There was no signature, but it was perfectly obvious to me who it was from.

This time, I repressed my emotions. My eyes remained hard, my expression unreadable. But Andrew still knew something was amiss. "Emily?" he prompted quietly.

I didn't answer him. I continued to stare long and hard at the note I held in my hand.

Finally, he snatched it from me to read it for himself. "You're going to say that we can't tell anyone about this, aren't you?" he asked me when he was finished.

I inclined my head and raised my eyebrows. "Well, showing anyone would result in them knowing that I am continuing on the case without permission. And we have definitely resolved not to do that."

He sighed and pressed the paper back into my hand. "But he said you will pay the price. Emily, he's threatening you. Don't you see that? If you tell someone, they can help protect you."

I rose up indignantly. "I can protect myself, thank you!" I protested.

"You know of martial arts, then?" Andrew queried.

My cheeks flushed. "No," I said. "But I'm rather a natural at archery, and I'm sure I could shoot if given a firearm."

Andrew shook his head, looking unimpressed. "Emily, there will be times when you will not have a gun on your person. Or you might not be able to get to it in time. You need to be able to fight with your hands and feet."

"Teach me," I said promptly, without even thinking about it. Strangely, though, it was my honest response.

Andrew took a step back, mystified. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"I said, teach me," I repeated.

He stammered for a moment before managing to get out a sentence. "All right. If you really want me to...I suppose I'd be willing..."

I wasn't sure if he was actually going to finish that thought, but if he was, he didn't get a chance. He suddenly started walking towards something behind me.

"Oi! This is a police scene, Miss, you can't be here."

I turned to see a girl who had apparently been walking towards us. Even in the dim light of the flickering gas lamp, I could see that she was very close to my height, thin as a rail, and had buttercream hair with a single freckle on her fair-skinned cheek. I could also see that she was wearing clothes that were far too expensive for her to be from this part of the city.

She stopped and cocked her head at Andrew. "You look a little young to be with the police," she noted. "And if this is a crime scene, what is she doing here?" The girl nodded at me.

Andrew's hands flew to his hips. "Now, you see here. She has as much right to be here as I do. Now if you will please exit the crime scene –"

She held up her hand. "Wait just a moment. I have something to say." She then dropped her voice and began to speak quicker, causing me to come closer to hear what she was saying. "My name is Nicole Camberwell, and I saw the man who painted that X."

"You know that's not paint, right?" Andrew interjected, at the same moment I was trying to hush him excitedly so that Miss Nicole Camberwell could tell us.

Her thin eyebrows arched. "Blood, then? How dreadful!" She shuddered.

"Miss Camberwell, can you describe the man to us?" I asked her.

She nodded. "I saw him walking over here from the pier. I think he'd been on that boat the police are gathered around. He had a bucket of that dreadful stuff with him, and a brush. I saw him take out a penknife and carve a brick out of that wall. He placed something behind it and then put it back. Then he took his brush and dipped it in the bucket, and painted that thing on the wall with it."

"Did you see what the man looked like?" Andrew asked her, sounding as if this was not his first time interviewing a potential witness. "What he was wearing, perhaps?"

"Well, he had an a dark overcoat and a top hat – silk, I think. He was very tall, and thin, and when he turned, I could see his silhouette. He had a rather large forehead, and a long nose, crooked at the end – like a hawk's beak."

I hardly even needed to listen to her words. I already knew who it was she was describing.

Andrew and I exchanged glances.

Once again, Moriarty had slipped right by me without even making his presence known. He had been here, and now he was gone.


	18. Power Corrupts

Chapter 17: Power Corrupts

* * *

On the afternoon following the incident at the docks, I was alone in Baker Street, save for the company of Mrs. Hudson, who was taking care of some papers downstairs. I had been rather withdrawn all day, not even having the heart to appear for breakfast and lunch. After I was sure that the flat was empty, I left my bedchamber and curled up in the armchair by the fire in the sitting room. It seemed rather foreboding at first, being usually occupied by Holmes, but I found that it was really quite comfortable, and afforded a very rewarding view of every part of the room.

Excepting Andrew, I had not told a soul about the note. Indeed, it currently lay stuffed into an envelope of newspaper clippings inside my desk. Not forgotten, but certainly abhorred with every inch of my body. And there it would stay.

Looking around me from my new perspective, I saw several of the day's papers lying untouched on the table. I walked over to look at them. I only needed to glance at the top one, the Pall Mall Gazette, to ascertain that all of the periodicals would be buzzing with news of Koval's death, and, most likely, Ivanov's disappearance. Publicity was exactly the opposite of what this investigation needed.

As I was about to walk back to my chair, the title of the paper sparked a thought in my mind. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock had not so much as mentioned his brother to me since we had been to see him together. As a figure of power in the British Government, Mycroft surely knew the goings on of both foreign and domestic affairs. I remembered Holmes briefly pointing out to me his brother's building in Whitehall. What was stopping me now from going to see him for myself?

Now thoroughly convinced of what I was going to do, I descended the familiar seventeen stairs and gave Mrs. Hudson a brief explanation – mainly consisting of the fact that I was going out and most likely would not return until late.

I donned my cloak, pulled the collar close around me, and opened the door.

A very well-known-to-me face was right outside, hand poised to knock on the door. When it opened, he started and turned around, pretending to be walking in the opposite direction.

I pulled the door shut softly. "Andrew," I called. "Come back, please."

He stopped in his tracks, but made no move in my direction.

Sighing, I advanced towards him instead. "Andrew, what's going on?"

He looked over his shoulder at me, face partially in shadow. His eyes were gloomy. At first it appeared he wanted to tell me something, but then he said, "I can't do this right now, Emily. I have to go."

I almost called after him, but he disappeared too quickly. Can't do what? He sounded as if I were the one who had approached him, though it was him who was at my door.

Shaking off my questions about the irregular attitude of Andrew Lynch, I called a cab and directed it to Whitehall.

Once there, I tipped the cabbie and stood mutely on the sidewalk, staring at the impressive building in front of me. The Foreign Office was regal in appearance, which I supposed was not all that shocking, considering that it housed a part of the British government, which was magnificent in its own right. Many columns and archways were carved and molded out of what appeared to be marble, the gleaming white standing out considerably from the surrounding street.

I took a breath and stepped through the doors, once again stopping to blink in surprise. It was certainly nothing akin to the other sights I'd seen in London. The floor, made up of a great number of large squares inside of which were a number of other, smaller squares filled with Greek designs, was polished until it shone like a mirror, and a grand staircase carpeted with royal red ascended upwards, branching off into various other staircases that led to different parts of the upper floor, all of which was encircled by an ornately carved railing, giving the impression of an enormous balcony. But the sheer design of the interior of the building, while making me feel inevitably small, was not the reason that I was so frozen in stupefaction. The thing that had made me stop dead in my tracks was the plants. It was as if I had stepped out of the urban frenzy of London and into a jungle. Palm trees and particularly bushy flowering shrubs loomed overhead, making it rather hard to see the upper balcony and railing in places. They must have all been potted, but the foliage was so dense that it was difficult to tell, and the incredibly large number of specimens made it a little hard to believe. Indeed, the full impression was altogether disconcerting, as I expected to hear the calls of wild birds and primates overhead.

Peering around me a bit, I located what appeared to be the commissionaire's desk, flanked on either side by slim potted palm trees, and walked over to speak to the tall and lanky man who slouched in his chair behind it, reading the sensational front page article of the Times – the ongoing investigation into Alexei Ivanov's disappearance. "Excuse me, sir, can I inquire about an employee here?"

The man folded down his paper to look at me with eyes so dark they were almost black. "One of the Civil Servants, you mean?"

"Yes, sir. He doesn't work here full time. His name is Mycroft Holmes; would you know if he's in today?"

The military-uniformed man pulled over a large black log book from across the desk to look. "He's in his office until four o'clock today. Our main secretary, Miss Dunn, will be pleased to show you up, won't you, Lara?"

Those last few words he shouted to someone who was filing books and encyclopedias on an incredibly ornate bookshelf in the area behind the desk. At the sound of her name, she started and turned to see at whom the first words had been directed, revealing a round, smooth face, slightly freckled, and dull brown hair pulled up into a bun. She looked to be in her late twenties. "Of course," she said, speaking quietly. "If you'll follow me, Miss."

She crossed the threshold between the office and lobby, carved in corinthian spirals and intricate designs, and beckoned me to follow her up the grand staircase.

I sucked in my breath as we walked under the faux canopy of leaves, and I was very much surprised not to feel a warm tropical breeze.

The first story was much like the ground floor in appearance. The floor was polished to an impeccable sheen, and the looming doorways, made of a deep mahogany and trimmed in sparkling white, and velvety red carpets were spaced evenly down the hallway, giving the perfect balance of royal red and the same pattern as had been found on the floors downstairs. It seemed to me very illogical that all this splendor that I'd wager rivaled Buckingham Palace could all fit on the inside of the structure, which although large, was flanked by other formidable buildings on all sides. The Government clearly believed in stretching the limits of imagination.

The secretary, Lara Dunn, led me to the very end of the hallway on the right side. She knocked on the imposing door lightly, waiting for a response.

After a few seconds, the voice of the elder Holmes brother answered. "If this is Miss Dunn, bring the biscuit tin in, please," he called in his boisterous voice.

"Actually, Mr. Holmes, I have a visitor to see you," returned Miss Dunn.

Mycroft sighed loudly. "Can they come back? I already have a small meeting in progress, you know."

I spoke up, in order to alert him of my identity. "It's me, Mr. Holmes," I called through the door, cringing as my voice echoed faintly. "If you have a moment to spare, I have something to speak to you about."

There was silence for a moment before a reply came. "You may come in."

Lara Dunn opened the door for me and stood back so I could enter. "I'll find you those biscuits, Mr. Holmes," she said, and left.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, given the proportions of the rest of the building, but the office was huge. Mycroft's desk was on the far side of the room with a chair facing away from the large window, at least two feet taller than me. A massive dozen bookcases stood against the walls lined around the room, and a settee and an armchair were positioned diagonally on either side of an oriental carpet across from the desk. There was a depression in the seat of the armchair, as though it had been recently occupied, and as I looked around the spacious room, I saw that since Mycroft was sitting at his desk, the man who had occupied the leather armchair was undoubtedly the one who was standing with his back against the nearest bookcase to the door, swirling around a glass of amber liquid.

"Miss Watson," said Mycroft. "However did you know to find me here?"

"Your brother told me you had a position here part time," I replied. "I didn't actually know you were here today, it was merely a hunch on my part."

Mycroft nodded, and I continued, gesturing at the tall, suited man by the bookcase. "I am sorry, I did not realize you had any kind of business going on."

The stout government official with the bulging waistcoat shook his head. "It is nothing to worry about, Miss Watson. In fact, if I have conjectured accurately, you are here regarding the same matter as this man here."

As Mycroft spoke, the man stepped out of the shadows cast by the natural light from the window and the lamp overhead with such a calm and fluid motion that he seemed to blend in with the very air in the room. He held out his hand to me. "Whom may I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked.

"Emily Watson," I answered him politely, lifting my hand to be kissed as I had been taught.

He did so gently. "I am Inspector Patterson," he returned.

My eyebrows lifted. "Of Scotland Yard?"

He laughed. "Originally, yes. But officially, I am with the Detective Service of the Home Office. Mr. Holmes is an old colleague of mine." Inspector Patterson turned to Mycroft. "Is she really here regarding that, Mycroft?"

"As I said, Pierre, if I have conjectured accurately. Have I, Miss Watson?"

I bit my lip. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I have." From Patterson's clandestine attitude and the way he had said that, I could only assume that he was speaking of Professor Moriarty. No doubt Mycroft had reached out to other high-ranking officials who could secretly get a handle on the situation.

"You see, Pierre? It is safe to say his name."

Even with the addition of Mycroft's assurances, Patterson squirmed uncomfortably. "How is it that she knows about him?" he asked, shooting a dubious glance around the office.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. "This is Emily Watson, Pierre."

Once the emphasis had been placed on my name, Patterson's eyes grew to the size of large buttons. "Surely not –"

I knew far too well from whence he had heard my name. "Sir Ashford's stepdaughter?" I finished for him. "I am."

He averted his gaze rapidly. "My condolences," he offered.

"Thank you, Inspector, for your sympathy," I returned quietly, taking care to not elaborate any further, lest I reveal my annoyance at being treated like a grieving widow.

"Surely you are feeling anger towards the, um, man who has taken your stepfather from you?"

"Oh, I am feeling anger towards him, make no mistake about that," I assured Patterson, "but it is for a different reason."

The Inspector's eyes filled with understanding. "Your sister. Of course. As far as the periodicals know, both of you went missing together and have not been seen since."

That was news to me, although now that I thought of it, they wouldn't have reason to suspect anything else.

I shook off that realization. "Am I to assume that Mr. Holmes has explained to you the truth behind my stepfather's death?"

"I have," said Mycroft. "Now would you mind bringing the conversation round to why you are here?"

Staring at the ground, I took a breath before speaking. "I was only wondering if you knew anything," I said. "I promised Holmes that I would steer clear of Moriarty's involvement outside of the Ivanov case, and he has refused to speak to me of it since then."

"Coming to me about it as a clandestine alternative is not 'steering clear' of it, Miss Watson."

He was right, of course. "Will you agree to not tell him that I was here?" I asked, silently begging. "I am only requesting an update on affairs, not a way into Moriarty's organization."

Mycroft tightened his lips, but finally agreed. "All right. Inspector Patterson here has volunteered himself to find a contact who will be willing to serve as our informant from inside the syndicate. He already has several men in mind, do you not, Pierre?"

Patterson nodded, taking a sip from his glass. I eyed the amber substance, trying to deduce its identity.

Mycroft followed my gaze. "Before we move further, can I get you anything to drink, Miss Watson? Coffee? Tea, perhaps? I would offer you some of that sherry, but..."

"No, Mr. Holmes, I am fine. Pray continue."

Patterson spoke thoughtfully. "As Mr. Holmes has just said, I have in mind several men who would, should they accept, find it a most desirable position. All that would be required of them is to listen and report back to us. In return, I am sure that the magistrate would grant them reprieve for their cooperation."

I nodded. The idea seemed to make sense. Have petty criminals get in with Moriarty. He'd be more than willing to accept business from them. "This is all well and good," I said, directing my statement at Mycroft, "but has any of this been mentioned to your brother?"

The man behind the desk began to look rather uncomfortable. "I know that this is the last thing you want to hear, but Sherlock is only an amateur. He is hardly equipped to deal with a case of this magnitude. If anything can be done to help him, I will see to it that it happens, whether he approves it or not."

Mycroft had been right. The fact that he wasn't telling Holmes about this made me angry. But what right did I have to act like I was on his side? I was the one who was disobeying rules that Holmes had put in place for my own safety.

I looked to Patterson. "You're from the Home Office?"

"I am," he replied steadily.

"So does the Home Secretary know about all of this?" I asked. "How about the Prime Minister?"

The look on Mycroft's face became even more pained. "Miss Watson, everything that we know is happening is nonexistent as far as the government and police are concerned. We are dealing with a very influential man. He has friends in high places, and we cannot trust anyone with that kind of authority. With the right words and the right price, anyone can be manipulated. If they hold a position of high importance, they can wave a proverbial magic wand and change what is seen by those beneath them."

I understood exactly the point that Mycroft was making. Anyone's trust could be bought. After all, power corrupts.

For a moment the three of us sat in silence, myself in particular, allowing the government official's words to soak in. Suddenly, the door to the office opened slightly, revealing the petite figure of Miss Dunn. "I have your biscuits, Mr. Holmes," she said meekly.

"Please set them on the desk, Miss Dunn," instructed Mycroft.

When she had done so, he opened the tin and took one out, taking a bite, inadvertently shedding crumbs from the shortbread all over his tie. He looked up, seeing that the girl was still standing there, hands folded politely. "Is there anything else, Miss Dunn?"

"Yes, sir," she answered. "There was a note left for you at the commissionaire's desk. I was asked to bring it to you." She produced a cream-colored envelope from her pocket and handed it to Mycroft.

From where I was standing, I could see the envelope as it was handed to the recipient. The wax seal was bright red, for business correspondence. Then my eyes fell on the handwriting on the front. My heart stopped.

Mycroft didn't seem to recognize the slanted handwriting, and slit open the envelope, still chewing his biscuit. His eyes scanned the contents of the page and he stopped chewing, slowly setting down the biscuit on his desk. "You may go, Miss Dunn," he said softly.

She left, closing the door behind her.

As soon as he was sure she was gone, Mycroft set the paper down on his desk and wiped off his shirt. "It appears that we have quite the problem."


	19. The Setup

Chapter 18: The Setup

* * *

"And you were going to alert me of this when?" Sherlock Holmes nearly shouted in livid tones.

"I am telling you now!" Mycroft's eyes blazed. "We needed someone with contacts!"

"Mycroft, I have contacts!"

"Who are far too shady even for Moriarty!"

"May I interject?" Inspector Patterson stepped forward with his left hand held up, most likely as a gesture to soothe the violent attitude in Mycroft's office.

Mycroft massaged his temple. "I would prefer it if you did not, Pierre."

"But sir, you still have not told us what that letter says."

Leaning against the far wall to the left of the door, Inspector Lestrade raised his eyebrows, appearing impressed that Patterson had dared to speak without Mycroft's blessing.

Holmes spread out his arms exasperatedly. "Yes, why don't you share that with us! It is, after all, the reason that you summoned me here all the way from Chiswick."

Mycroft sighed deeply and handed the letter to his brother, looking relieved to get the damned thing away from him.

Holmes read it, appearing stunned, and then dropped the hand holding the paper to his side, staring at Mycroft. "You're not going to do it, are you?"

Mycroft clasped his hands on top of his adequate abdomen. "I do not have a choice."

"Have a choice in what?" I said on behalf of Lestrade and Patterson.

Holmes sighed. "Moriarty has made another ransom demand. 20,000 pounds this time, to be delivered to the Ship Tavern, on Gate Street in Holborn tomorrow at noon exactly. There is, however, one extra stipulation."

Lestrade's left eyebrow raised dubiously. "And that is what, precisely?"

Another heavy sigh, and he looked straight at me. "Emily, he says you have to deliver the ransom demand personally."

I opened my mouth to react, but couldn't, for my stomach was now churning uncontrollably. It made sense, for I rather think he liked me in some strange, perverse way. Perhaps it was the false familial connection. I shuddered at the thought.

Patterson spoke for me. "Then why was the note delivered to Mycroft Holmes?"

"Because I am instructed to come up with the money," said Mycroft softly, his face more sober than I'd ever seen it, which was saying something, as Mycroft appeared to be a very serious man.

"Does this mean you have to allow me to be involved?" I asked at last.

Holmes' gaze was harsh. "No, Emily, you are not going to be allowed anywhere near that tavern tomorrow."

"Then I will be forced to ignore your instructions," I said firmly.

"What did you say?"

"I said that I refuse to stay away. A man's life is at stake here. He could be killed if we don't follow Moriarty's demands to the letter. Just because he wants to extract me from his equation does not mean that we should ignore the importance of other lives. Who will mourn for me if I am killed? I should not think anyone, for all those whom I have truly known are dead or in captivity. Ivanov, however – if he dies or is not returned, a vicious war will begin and potentially thousands of lives will be lost and an entire two countries will mourn. Weigh the consequences, I beg you." I barely noticed that while I had been speaking, my voice had cracked and silent tears were rolling down my cheeks out of desperation.

My emotional outburst appeared to have quite the effect on the occupants of the room. Holmes drew back, Mycroft's eyes were on the ground, and both Lestrade and Patterson were eyeing my body language carefully.

After a moment, no one had spoken. "That settles that, I suppose," I said, wiping my cheek dry with the back of my hand and leaving the office.

I had learned not to go walking through the streets to alleviate my frustration. All I needed was to stand alone in the hallway to compose myself.

Unfortunately, it was not very long before Lestrade slipped out the door and made a beeline straight for me. "Miss Watson? Are you all right?"

I took a deep breath and assumed a stiff and defiant attitude. "I am fine, Inspector. I merely want priorities to be correctly judged in the present circumstance. I am sure that you understand."

He sighed and ran a hand through his permanently ruffled hair. "You know why Sherlock Holmes cares so much, don't you?"

"I can't say I've given it much thought."

"Well, you should. None of us have ever seen him like this around a female. The only reason he normally accepts clients of the fair sex is because your brother won't let him send them away."

I fixed my gaze on the ground. "Your previous statement implies that you know why he cares about me."

Lestrade massaged the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I do indeed. But I think it would be better if you heard the story from him."

I almost laughed at the absurdity of his suggestion. "Inspector Lestrade, can you imagine Holmes giving me an answer to that?"

He too was forced to break into a smile. "I think I should wish to be there to see that."

After thinking for a moment, I spoke again. "Lestrade, I do understand that he is only concerned for me, but that does not change the sense of duty that I feel. I will not hesitate to put myself on the line if it helps us accomplish Ivanov's safe return."

Lestrade looked at me almost admiringly. "Emily Watson," he said at last, "if we ever overcome the social boundaries, let me be the first to say that Scotland Yard would be honored to have you."

* * *

I do not think that I ever managed to close my eyes on the night of 7th September. My mind was full of chaos. Utter chaos. I dared not spare a thought towards the kind of horrible visions my imagination would conjure were I to lay my head down for more than a second.

In lieu of resting, as I likely should have done, I paced the floor of my bedroom for the entire night, rearranging the books on my shelf and the few items upon my desk multiple times, in an attempt to calm myself. In between the sorting and the pacing, I snuck increasingly paranoid glances out the window, expecting to see one or another of Moriarty's henchmen watching the flat. But every time, the street was devoid of unusual presence. It took me until dawn to realize that no one was going to show themselves.

At breakfast, I could not force myself to eat anything. I don't think that I was very nervous at all. I wasn't nauseous, I merely didn't feel in the mood to eat.

As it turned out, the night before, after I had retired to my bedchamber, Holmes had told John that I was going to deliver the ransom. But from the attitude at the table, it appeared that he had not been informed of the exact reason. I cautiously raised my eyes briefly to look at my brother, aware that ever since I had entered the room, he had been staring at me as if believing me insane for doing something like this.

Not a word was spoken between us, although as John set down his fork I could tell from the noise it made against the plate that his hands were shaking. The expression on his face and the tensed muscles in his neck betrayed that no amount of military discipline could quell it, whether it be from anger or fear, or, indeed, both. For I knew very well that every anger was rooted in fear.

Breakfast finished, the plates were taken away by Mrs. Hudson, and my brother disappeared without a word.

After a long period of taut silence between Holmes and I, Lestrade and Inspector Patterson appeared, Lestrade lugging a large bag full of banknotes. "Holmes," he said, grunting, "I don't even want to know where your brother acquired this money."

"Requisitioned it from government accounts, of course," said Holmes, eyeing Lestrade sharply. "Mycroft _is_ the British government, in certain terms of the phrase, Lestrade, I would never believe him to have taken illegal means to get the notes."

"Don't forget that he is your brother, Holmes," warned Lestrade, wagging a finger in the detective's direction.

Holmes snorted. "As if I would dare." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Emily." Lestrade turned to me. "We have arranged a setup. Patterson will be sitting at the corner table of the pub. Holmes will be in disguise as the bartender – the real bartender has been temporarily relieved of his duties and is being held as an accomplice to a fictitious smuggler's ring. I will be outside the pub. When Moriarty or, more likely, one of his men approaches, I will enter the pub and tell you. You will conduct your business with them, hand them the money, and we will then arrest them for kidnapping and collecting a ransom demand."

"Hold on just a bloody moment," said Patterson. "Is that really enough to ascertain that Moriarty is behind the kidnapping? Where's the proof that it's him?"

"I've already taken care of that," said Holmes, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and I saw that it was actually two pieces of paper – one was the note that Koval had discovered the morning of Ivanov's disappearance, and the other was the ransom note that Koval had followed to his death. "A specific line from this eccentric rhyming scheme was particularly instructive," he said, waving the paper. "It said 'look for my name on my very own crest.' If you hold this note, and the other – and no doubt the others that have been received in regard to this case – up to the light, you will see a watermark in the upper right-hand corner. Magnify it," he said, handing the note and a convex lens to Patterson, "and on the upper edge of the mark, which is a coat of arms, you will see a name."

Patterson peered through the lens at the paper. "Moriarty," he said after a moment.

I barely registered this, thinking about the plan that Lestrade had described to me. "Let's at least have a little fun with this," I said after a moment.

Everyone in the room looked at me blankly.

"Code words," I said simply, shrugging. "Treasure Island has been the tune Moriarty's been playing this entire game to, so let's play along. Lestrade, when you alert me, you call Moriarty 'Black Dog.' First, when you walk in, you ask Holmes if the corner table is for your mate Bill. Then you walk back to it and bump against me, giving me the signal, before sitting down with Patterson."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Is there really a point to this?" he asked, sounding unimpressed.

I fixed him with a glare. "It's only a precaution, in case Moriarty already has henchmen planted within the establishment."

Holmes grumbled a bit more about it being unnecessary and completely imbecilic, but then disappeared into his bedroom to don his disguise.

Everything seemed to me to be moving both too quickly and too slowly all at once. Before I knew it, we were getting out of the cab and taking our positions around the proximity of the Ship Tavern. Holmes and Lestrade had carried the bag of money into the building and placed it beneath the table I was to sit at some time before, having taken a different cab. A few other men were lounging at tables in the pub, and they gave me suspicious looks as I sat down. Patterson was already sitting at the table in the corner behind me. I sat there, silently, waiting and trying to quell my nerves, occasionally glancing behind me to try and meet Patterson's eye, but he was always looking in another direction.

After a few moments, I saw a familiar figure across the street, and I sat bolt upright in my chair, muscles tensed. _No. Oh, no._ What was he doing here?

It appeared that Lestrade saw him too, for he turned around and motioned for us to stay put while he handled the situation. The thin, lanky boy meanwhile started to cross the street remarkably quickly, and Lestrade rushed forward to stall him. I could gather from their stances that a shouting match ensued. Andrew Lynch eventually overpowered Lestrade, who slumped his shoulders helplessly. Andrew quickly reached the door of the pub.

No. If he entered he would compromise our carefully planned entrapment. Surely Moriarty had someone planted here keeping an eye on things. If Andrew approached me, they would be aware that there was a police presence, and we would fail.

I stood up and ran towards the door. My path was blocked as one of the men, very large and very muscular, stood up from a table near the door. Aware that my move towards the door had not been appreciated, Holmes and Patterson made their moves. But it was soon obvious that they were outnumbered. Three more men stood up and engaged Holmes and Patterson in combat, and I was caught in the middle of what would seem to an outsider to be a disorderly, drunken brawl. The last thing I saw was Lestrade pulling Andrew away from the door and rushing in before everything went black.


	20. The House Of Many Faces

Chapter 19: The House Of Many Faces

* * *

I opened my eyes and immediately groaned, wishing I had the strength to close them again and keep them that way. My head hurt like hell, and even though there was very little light, it seemed like far too much. I grimaced as the pain from the rest of my body hit me all at once. My left shoulder ached incessantly, and there was a sharp burning sensation near my chest, from which I concluded that at least one or two of my ribs were broken. Gently moistening my parched lips with my tongue, I blearily peered around, trying to take in my surroundings and, probably inaccurately in my condition, deduce my location.

Contrary to my expectations of a prison, having been apparently kidnapped, I was in a well-furnished and comfortably heated room. Despite the feeling of luxury with which the room provided me, there was only one light: a small gas lamp in the far corner of the room, by the door. The most uncivil part of my situation appeared to be the fact that I was tied to a wooden chair with a coarse rope, which I tried to struggle out of, but the knots were too tight, and my ribs seared with a pain great enough to render me incapable of breathing when I strained. Breathing heavy and pained after my efforts, I closed my eyes tight and concentrated on breathing rather than the white hot pain I felt every time I filled my lungs with air.

As I was gaining back what I could of my diminished strength, a thought hit me, as shocking as the first wave of pain, as I remembered what had happened at the pub. Andrew. He might be in some kind of trouble. And what about the others? What would Holmes tell John? My thoughts drifted back to Andrew. How on earth had he known what was happening at the Ship Tavern anyway? Being the Chief Commissioner's son, he did have ample investigative talent, I supposed. Oh, God, I hoped he wouldn't do anything else moronically chivalrous, like track down my captors, or try anything similar in nature to his endeavors today…or was it yesterday? Indeed, I had no idea what time it was. _No, not important, back to Andrew,_ I chided myself. Of course, his occasional stupidity was outweighed by his more frequent bursts of brilliance. But every part of it was – Lord, had I been about to allow the word _attractive_ to enter my mind? I tried to tell myself no, but the answer was clearly yes. Every time that I saw and spoke to him, something stirred inside of me. _Could it really be romance?_ My stomach squirmed at the thought.

My thoughts were interrupted, thankfully, I thought at first, by the door to the room opening with a soft creak. When I whipped my head around to face the noise, however, I gasped, far more surprised than I should have been.

Professor Moriarty stood in the doorway, arms crossed, fingers tapping against his arm idly. "Dear me, Miss Emily, you have been mistreated. I thought I gave explicit instructions that you were not to be harmed while being brought here."

"That would have been hard," I said, wincing, as speaking made my entire chest cavity feel as if it were on fire. "It was a setup. Holmes was there. As were two Scotland Yard officers."

Moriarty leaned back his head and laughed. "I suspected as much. That is why I didn't go myself. Dear, dear, it does appear that I can't trust you." He clucked his tongue. "That's not the way the game is supposed to be played, my dear. You're just a bit too trusting. If you keep it that way, you'll never get your sister back."

A lump suddenly formed in my throat. "Where is she?" I asked in a low voice, my hands curling into fists where they were tied behind my back.

"Oh, don't worry, she's safe," said Moriarty, walking over to me and turning my chair around to face the other way. He glanced at my extremities and grimaced. "I'll have to call a physician in to tend to that. Wouldn't want that concussion and those broken ribs going untreated."

I glared at him. "Where is my sister?" I asked again, hoping to sound threatening, which couldn't have gone too well considering I wasn't much of a threat while tied to a chair.

Moriarty put a finger to his lips. "Don't you worry about that."

I noticed that he had turned my chair to face a curtain on the opposite side of the room – the side I had not been able to study previously. The entire tied-to-a-chair scenario was really quite annoying in that regard.

Moriarty went over to said curtain and drew it back, revealing a piece of glass in the wall. For a split second I thought it was a mirror, for the girl on the other side of it was identical to me. However, I knew that it was a window when the girl on the other side ran up to the glass and put her hands on it, trying to get as close as possible, her mouth open in a scream. The words I could not hear.

I began to struggle against my bonds again, more ferociously than I had before. I did not care about the intense pain in my lungs, and as I struggled tears began to fall down my face. "Ariana!" I screamed. "Ariana!" But as surely as I could not hear her, I knew that she could not hear me.

* * *

A day passed, and I had not seen Ariana again. It gave me a sense of the most utter desperation that we were evidently being kept in the same building, yet I could not see her and I could not talk to her. Maybe, just maybe, if Andrew or one of the others did manage to find out where I was, they could rescue Ariana too. I longed for nothing more than to be with my sister again.

Moriarty had a physician come in to inspect my wounds. He introduced himself to me as Doctor Hargrave, and after an examination closely overseen by one of Moriarty's men – one whom I had never seen before – he diagnosed my injuries as a minor concussion and four broken ribs, which he bandaged and gave me pain medication for, all the while asking repeatedly how I had sustained these injuries and eyeing the rope burns on my wrists suspiciously. After all my medical needs had been tended to, the good doctor was undoubtedly paid off handsomely and sent away.

I was kept in the room in which I had woken up the previous day, and had thankfully been untied and allowed a military style cot with a pillow and a blanket.

After the physician left, I sat on my cot thinking about what Moriarty had said the previous night.

 _If you keep it that way, you'll never get your sister back._

In order to get her back, Moriarty would have to let me go. Was he planning on letting me go? In that case, kidnapping me in the first place seemed more than a little pointless.

Even if he was planning to let me go, I didn't know when that would be. I needed to get out. And I needed to get out fast. I surely couldn't escape on my own – I needed outside help. _Think think think. Anything. Any detail._ The physician Moriarty had ordered to tend to my wounds – Doctor Hargrave. I remembered his black bag. The engravings on the handle. He was employed as a police surgeon. Yes. If I could only see him again, I could have him pass a message to Patterson or Lestrade. But I couldn't do it right away. I needed to make sure of something.

I stood up, grimacing as I felt my broken ribs searing with pain, and began to pace the room, waiting. I stopped by the curtain that Moriarty had pulled back to reveal Ariana to me before. Hoping against hope that she would be there again, I pulled back the heavy drapery.

The room on the other side of the glass was empty. I tapped on it. Sealed. Soundproof. It echoed from only the room on this side of it – it didn't give the well-rounded echo of having reached the other side as well.

I sighed, a million thoughts and ideas flying through my head all at once. _What time was it?_ Certainly after three. Doctor Hargrave had come at two. I had been informed that Moriarty had requested for me to dine with him at five – joy of joys. I didn't look forward to the prospect of another meal in my lifetime with that snake of a man, but I would endure it, for it gave me a chance to put my plan in action.

Heaving another sigh and grimacing, I sat down again on my cot to wait.

* * *

At what must have been five in the evening, the door to my room opened, revealing a young man with flaming red hair, who was wearing a tailored suit. I was taken aback at his appearance – he wasn't the sort that I had expected to work with Moriarty.

"Miss Emily Watson?" he asked, offering a hand to help me up.

"Yes," I said, grimacing again as he supported my weight and helped me pull myself to my feet.

"I'm Fred," he said with a wide and charming smile.

"Fred…" I prompted him, thinking it was strange that he hadn't given me a last name, as courteous as he was in all other respects.

He tilted his head amusedly and the smile grew wider as he offered an arm to me. "Now, in my field, we all know better than to give last names out freely, especially to charming young ladies with police connections."

I laughed, realizing that I might as well play along so as not to arouse anyone's suspicions. "And what about simply charming young ladies?"

"Well, they can sometimes pose an exception."

"I suppose I'm right in saying that you've gotten far enough in your field, whatever it might be. That smile could get you anywhere, and it looks as if it has."

"It does have its' perks, that I can say with a clear conscience."

We were walking down a long hallway together. It was lavishly decorated, more so than I would have expected, even considering the room which had been made my prison. "This is quite the...establishment, Fred," I said, looking around. "However did Mr. Moriarty afford to rent out this place on a whim?"

"The same way he can afford to keep my service and that of hundreds of other agents, and the same way he paid off that doctor yesterday."

I couldn't help but analyze his speech and the quality of his voice. "You don't sound, or dress, for that matter, like the others I've seen. Who are you, Fred, and where did Moriarty find a respectable collegiate such as yourself?"

He laughed again, a laugh that fit right in with his smile. "If I told you that, we'd both be in deep, deep waters. Let's step away from that and enjoy our dinner, shall we?"

We had approached a doorway at the end of the corridor. The door was open and through it I could see a large, elaborately decorated room that could have been repurposed as a ballroom. A table was set up in the middle, around which were seated three men. One was Moriarty, another was a lean and haggard man with uneven stubble and hard eyes, and the third was a tall, imposing man with dark hair, a receding hairline, and a long, straight nose. His eyes were gray and piercing and his suit seemed even finer and more tailored than 'Fred's' was.

As Fred pulled out a chair for me and I sat down, I eyed the other man, wheels turning in my head. "And you are Mr. Ivanov, I presume?" I asked him.

He looked up in surprise. "How did you know?" he asked in a heavy Russian accent.

"The quality of your clothing and the fact that you look far too uncomfortable here to be one of Mr. Moriarty's men."

"That's _Professor_ Moriarty to you," said Moriarty. Without looking, I could feel his repulsive beady eyes boring into me.

I turned my gaze to him and gave him a look. "Don't try to kid yourself."

Fred sat down beside me and averted his eyes.

Moriarty picked up his fork, and I noticed that a roast chicken and platter of potatoes were in the middle of the table, and our plates had been filled with them. "Well, then, I suggest we all eat."

So, the four of us took up our forks and ate in an uncomfortable silence, which fortunately allowed me more time to go over my plan in my head.

When we were finished eating, Fred stood to escort me back to my room. _Now. I had to set it in motion now. This might be my only chance._

As Fred helped me stand I gave out a cry and collapsed to the ground. Fred knelt down beside me, easing me onto my back, and Moriarty and Ivanov stood up, alarmed.

As I worked to make my breathing seem as heavy and pained as possible, Moriarty beckoned to the young man kneeling beside me. He stood and went over to Moriarty, and I heard them speaking softly.

"Should we send another doctor? We could pay him off, just like the other one."

Moriarty shook his head. "No. That's far more trouble than it's worth." He cast a glance in my direction, his eyes emotionless as always. "Stay here with her. I'll send for Hargrave again. Mr. Ivanov, follow me." He then swept out of the room, Ivanov too frightened to do anything but follow in his wake, the third man not even needing an order to follow obediently after.

Fred swiftly knelt down beside me again, assessing my condition.

"You're a doctor," I said weakly, through my 'labored' breathing. "So why go to the trouble of calling in someone from the outside? You don't need more liabilities."

He shook his head as he shrugged off his jacket and rolled it up, sliding it under my head to support my neck. "Not for quite a few more years yet. I'm certainly not qualified enough, and Mr. Moriarty does value the safety of those he keeps close for his own purposes. Now don't talk. Save your breath."

I followed his instructions, closing my eyes and concentrating on my breaths. To Fred, it would seem that my efforts were focused on continuing to breathe, but in reality they were focused on making my breathing seem as unstable as possible. For good measure, I cried out loudly and curled in on myself in mock pain. Fortunately for my charade, the pain soon became real, for I could feel my bandages cutting into my skin with my movements, and tears began to run down my face.

Fred took a firm but gentle hold of my shoulder and pushed me back onto the ground. "Stay lying on your back now. The doctor should be here soon."

He was right. A few short moments later, yet another man with whom I had not yet been acquainted showed a ruffled and out of breath Doctor Hargrave into the room. I wondered how on earth he had gotten here so fast. He had to live very close by in order to get here within a few minutes on such short notice.

He knelt down beside me, looking concerned, and opened his bag. Fred stood behind him. "Should we move her?" he asked.

Doctor Hargrave looked at him sharply. "Heavens, no!" he exclaimed.

Fred nodded and continued standing there for a moment, before Hargrave shooed him with a hand. "I will require privacy, my good sir. An examination of the wounds will require the removal of certain garments. I must ask for you to leave."

Fred quickly complied with the physician's instructions and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Once the door was securely closed, Hargrave sat back and looked at me. "Miss Watson, you may stop faking a collapsed lung now."

In my surprise I stopped my heavy breathing and looked up at him, blinking a few times before finding words. "How did you ascertain so quickly?"

"The pallor of your face, Miss Watson. You are nowhere near pale enough, in fact, you are more flushed from the effort of an irregular breathing pattern."

Rather sheepish, I sat up and grimaced. "Truthfully, Doctor," I said softly, with a glance towards the door, hoping no one outside could hear us, "I only needed an excuse to get you back here. I noticed that engraving on your bag earlier. You're a police surgeon with the Mets."

He stiffened. "What bearing does that have on needing to get me back here?"

"You might have guessed that I was not brought here of my own free will, or for shelter, or protection, or whatever cock-and-bull story they fed you while paying you off. It may have crossed your mind that there is only one reason they could have a need to pay you off in the first place. And I do know you were bribed into silence, but please. I need you to pass a message to Scotland Yard. They never have to know it was you. You'll be safe. I promise."

Hargrave looked leery, but said nothing against my requests. "And to whom am I passing the message?"

"Inspector G. Lestrade. Tell him to tell Holmes and John and Patterson and get here as soon as they can. Tell him where I am and that I need to get out. Tell him that Ivanov and my sister are here as well."

While I was speaking, we both snuck wary glances at the door.

Hargrave bit his lip, but after a moment, he nodded. "All right. Consider it done this very evening." He collected his bag and offered me a hand up. "Come on, now. Take it easy."

He supported me over to the door and opened it. Moriarty, Fred, and the man who had shown the doctor in stood waiting in the hallway. "She'll live," he reported, "but make sure she sleeps well tonight and is cautious with how she moves for about a week."

Moriarty nodded. "Take her back to her room," he said to Fred. He turned to the other of his men. "Show the good doctor out."

Fred took my arm and supported me as we began to walk back down the long hallway to the room with the single gas lamp and my simple little cot, all the while inquiring how I was and if I was sure I was fine.

"I'm fine. Yes," I reassured him every time. When we reached my room and Fred let me in and closed the door, I sank onto my cot to wait, without any desire whatsoever to sleep.


	21. A Love Undecided

Chapter 20: A Love Undecided

* * *

Hours later, probably closer to ten o'clock, although I couldn't be sure, the door of my room opened, and a figure in a long coat appeared. He turned up the gas lamp to improve visibility conditions. Upon seeing him, I jumped up and cursed so profoundly that he winced.

"Holy mother of hell! Andrew Lynch! What in the name of goodness and sanity are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I was there when Doctor Hargrave passed the message along to Lestrade and insisted upon tagging along. Good work, by the way. Oh, and I really should teach you martial arts. With a knowledge of self-defense you might never have gotten yourself into this mess."

"Where are the others? How did you get in?"

"Searching the building for Ivanov and your sister. We got in by posing as guards. The man at the front door – daft type. He just assumed that we were new recruits of Moriarty's – let us right in."

Suddenly there were voices down the hallway and several men appeared, running towards the open door. Andrew swore softly and flung the door closed, bolting it and glancing around urgently.

"All right, you've been here longer than I. How do we get out of here? Think fast. They look stronger than the door."

I looked around hurriedly before realizing. I rushed over to the curtain and pulled it back. "Can you break through this?" I asked him.

He scanned the room for something to use and quickly picked up the chair which I had been tied to only the previous night. "Stand back," he advised, and as I stepped back he rammed the window at full speed. The glass shattered. Two of the chair legs broke off, but that was no matter. The men were pounding at the door, which was shaking and making ominous noises at the hinges. Andrew was right. It wouldn't hold long.

I looked at the broken window. Shards of glass still stuck up from the bottom edge. I didn't see how either of us would be able to get over it.

Andrew caught my gaze. "Do you trust me?" He asked urgently.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"I said, do you trust me," he repeated, looking into my eyes with the most honest gaze I had ever known. And in that moment I felt something, and although I hesitated, I knew the answer was yes.

"Yes," I said breathlessly.

Andrew put his hands on my waist and lifted me up. "Tuck your legs in," he said, and I obeyed. He swung me over the dangerously sharp edges of the window and I landed safely on the other side, stumbling slightly, but still on my feet.

He took off his coat and laid it over the shards, using it as a cushion while he jumped over nimbly. As soon as we had both made it into the room where I had seen Ariana, the door gave way. "Go, go!" Shouted Andrew, and as the men fired several shots from their guns, we threw the door open and made our escape into a hallway, one which I had not seen before. We had a choice to go either left or right, and we looked from one to the other wildly.

"Which way?" Andrew asked me, gasping for breath.

"I don't know," I replied, somehow managing to speak through the white hot pain that was spreading through my chest cavity.

From the left, we heard more shouting voices, which proved to be the same men who had been on our tail before. "Let's go right," said Andrew.

And so he grabbed my arm and right we went. There were stairs, leading downwards, and at the bottom a door. A cold breeze seemed to seep from under it. Could it be? We were so close.

More shots were fired, and all of them missed. But then the door opened and another man appeared. He began shooting too. One of the shots sounded different. And Andrew fell to the ground in the midst of us both trying to duck.

Not caring whether or not I was shot, I immediately dropped to Andrew's side. Blood was pouring from a spot on his left shoulder.

"No, Andrew," I murmured, frozen in shock.

He blinked, grimacing at the pain, and grasped my hand. "Emily, I should tell you what I was going to in my father's office the other day," he said, his voice strained.

I shook my head, tears beginning to blur my vision. "No, Andrew, it can wait. Just hold on. Save your strength."

He grasped my hand tighter and my heart skipped a beat. "No, Emily, it can't wait. I-I love you."

Tears were rolling down my cheeks now. I didn't know what to do. After his words, Andrew cried out loudly and then went limp. His hand fell from my grasp and his head rolled to the side. No. No. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead.

"John!" I screamed. "John!" I looked up to see that the men who had been shooting at us were now running in the opposite direction, and I soon saw why. Lestrade and Patterson had run through the door, ready to shoot anyone who dared to oppose them. Lestrade took one look at Andrew's limp body on the ground and bolted back down the stairs. "Doctor!" he shouted out the door.

A second later John came running in. He immediately saw the reason he had been called and cursed, flying up the staircase two by two. He pushed me back, and although I wanted nothing more than to stay by Andrew's side, I was too much in shock to object.

John quickly felt Andrew's neck for a pulse and then ripped off his jacket, applying pressure to the bullet wound. "Lestrade," he called, "get Emily to the cab. Patterson, come help me move him."

Lestrade took my hand and assisted me in getting up, and I obediently followed him, although I had no idea what exactly was happening. Everything was very slow and disjointed in motion. Everyone's voices were echoing. My head hurt like hell and my chest felt as though it were on fire.

I felt the cold night air hit my face, although I could barely see, and had no choice but to allow Lestrade to guide me to wherever it was we were going. Home. Home would be nice. I had a longing for Thorndon Hall again. Or was my home in Baker Street? I wasn't sure. I didn't feel sure of anything, in fact. But I did somehow know that my sister was not outside waiting for me. I saw a man with dark hair who was slightly balding, whom I dimly recognized as Ivanov from the dinner table. Ariana was not there.

I shakily turned to Lestrade. "Where's Ariana?" I asked him. My voice sounded slightly slurred and distorted to my ears, and I wasn't quite sure if what I was saying had at all corresponded to my thoughts.

Before Lestrade could answer, Holmes came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. "We searched the whole building. Moriarty and your sister were both gone. All that were left are a few air guns, which are being collected as we speak. I am sorry, Emily."

I didn't register what he was saying. The pain in my head and my chest was intensifying, and everything became even more disjointed. I vaguely tasted a kind of warm, metallic substance in my mouth and throat. I thought I opened my mouth but no air was moving in or out. Everything slowly went dim and hazy and then black altogether.

* * *

I woke up in what I recognized after a moment as my own bed. The curtains were closed but I could still see the light of day shining through them. I looked around me blearily, feeling far too groggy and sore to do anything but blink as my surroundings came into focus. John was sitting in my desk chair, which he had pulled over by my bed, probably to keep watch. Wait. Watch over what? What was I doing in my bed? The last thing I remembered we had been outside the building in which Moriarty had been keeping me.

I tried to pull myself up into a sitting position, and was immediately greeted by a burning sensation and a great deal of dizziness. John urgently stood up and pushed me back down onto the bed with his left hand while taking ahold of my wrist with his right. He timed my pulse against his pocket watch for a minute and then let my wrist fall back to my side. "How do you feel?" he asked softly.

"It hurts," I said, taking a deep breath and wincing.

"Well, that means that you're alive, which at present is the best we could hope for."

"What happened?" I asked, relaxing my shoulders against the soft pillows behind them and raising a hand to massage my throbbing forehead.

"Does your head hurt?" John asked.

I nodded, the movement making the pain even worse.

"When the sedatives completely wear off I'll give you something for the pain," he told me.

"You still haven't answered me. What happened?"

"One of your broken ribs punctured your right lung," he explained. "You collapsed on the street as Patterson and I were carrying Andrew out. I had no choice but to perform surgery right there or else you'd have been too far gone."

I listened to his narrative, but then a thought struck me and a lump formed in my throat. "Andrew. Where is he? Is he – oh, my God please tell me he's –"

John put up a hand to quiet me. "Andrew is fine, Emily. He's going to live. He lost a lot of blood, so he's quite weak, but he's just fine. When I left him less than an hour ago to come sit with you, he was awake."

"I'm going to see him," I said, and started to sit up again.

Once again, I was firmly pushed back down. "You suffered a punctured lung and near death only last night. You aren't going anywhere."

I laid back again and groaned. "How long are you going to force me to stay in bed?" I inquired.

"At least another day or two," he said firmly.

"What about Andrew? Can he come visit me?" I asked.

"If he's strong enough to rise without fainting by later today, yes."

"Hand me _Macbeth_ from my bookshelf," I said.

John raised his eyebrows.

I sighed. "Please?"

He fetched the requested book and handed it to me, and I happily opened it and began to read. A few minutes later, John left me in peace with my Shakespeare, and I put the book down. Of course I couldn't focus on reading at present. My mind was buzzing with what Andrew had said to me right before falling unconscious. What exactly did it mean? And more importantly, did I feel the same way?

* * *

Late in the afternoon, my thoughts had finally quieted enough for me to read, and I was immersed in the macabre Elizabethan play when I heard a soft knock on the frame of my door. I looked over and saw Andrew standing there, his left shoulder bandaged and his arm in a sling. "How are you feeling?" I asked, resisting the urge to spill out the things I had been thinking about all afternoon to him right away.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said. "I was told about the events after I sustained my injury last night."

I shrugged, setting my book on my nightstand. "John said I'll live," I said in reply.

Andrew nodded and sat down gingerly on the edge of my bed. "As will I," he said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could John walked in.

"Mr. Lynch, your father telegraphed and requested your immediate presence at his office."

Andrew smiled and stood, his smile quickly becoming a grimace. "Duty calls," he said, tipping an imaginary hat to me. "I expect it won't be too much longer before you see me again, Miss Emily Watson."

And as he left the room, I turned my face away from John and smiled to myself. Love, affection, and the whole lot wasn't a concept that I was well acquainted with. But I certainly didn't mind an introduction.


	22. Epilogue: Three Days Later

Epilogue: Three Days Later

* * *

The lobby of Scotland Yard was as bustling and crowded as ever. Petty thieves were escorted in and officers, inspectors, and secretaries hurried to and fro, collecting files and transporting evidence.

From where we were, I could see a wooden board tacked to which were grainy police photographs of a dead body and the crime scene around it. The name Sally Billings was written at the top in neat print. I looked at Holmes to see that he was looking the same place I was. "Absurdly simple," he scoffed. "Displeased customer." Judging from Holmes' words and the low cut dress Sally Billings was wearing in the photographs, I gathered that she must have been one of the unfortunates for whom prostitution was the only means of surviving – and even that a risk hardly worth taking. I knew well enough from reading the papers that prostitutes made up a disturbingly high percentage of all murder victims, making it by far the most dangerous occupation in London, albeit the one sought by all those lacking the funds to find trade elsewhere.

Lestrade jogged up to where Holmes, John, and I were standing. "Alexei Ivanov is traveling back to St. Petersburg today. Hopefully his native government has a better idea of what to do with him than we do."

"He'll need a new political aide as well," I added grimly, recalling the cool evening at the docks not so long ago when Dmitri Koval had met his untimely end.

"If he makes his way back into politics," Holmes said. "As my brother has informed us, the Russian government has caught wind of Ivanov's ties to revolutionary groups here in London. There is a good possibility that he might spend the rest of his life in prison on suspicion of committing treason."

"That is not the only thing I'm here to tell you," said Lestrade grimly. "Doctor James Hargrave didn't come in this morning. Being a very punctual man, he normally would have sent a telegram if he was ill or had business to tend to elsewhere. I sent a man to his home to make sure everything was all right. Hargrave is dead. A gunshot to the back of the head. My man talked to all the surrounding neighbors. No one saw anything out of place. And no one heard a gunshot."

We all stood in shocked silence. Lestrade didn't need to explain anything else to us. We all understood that Moriarty had caught up with him and he had paid the price for carrying a message to the police on my behalf. The man who had been so crucial to my rescue was dead. Because of something I had asked him to do. A knot formed in my stomach, and I swallowed hard, forcing my mind onto another plane of thinking. I could think about this all I wanted later. But right now, in the middle of the crowded lobby of the Metropolitan Police, was not the right time.

Before anything else could be said on the topic, Andrew ran across the room to meet us, grimacing as the movement jarred his shoulder, which was still in a sling. "Inspector, Doctor, Mr. Holmes, my father asked if you could see him in his office."

John turned to me as Holmes and Lestrade headed for the stairs. "Stay here," he instructed me. "And don't get kidnapped."

Then he disappeared into the crowd, weaving to catch up to the others.

Andrew and I were left behind, and we stood there awkwardly for a moment before Andrew put his right hand on my shoulder. "Emily, I-I'm sorry for what I said the other night before I – well, that is to say, after…" he gestured to his injured shoulder. Unable to maintain eye contact, he looked at the ground. "I just didn't know if I would…"

"Live or die?" I finished for him softly, a moment after he trailed off into silence.

He averted his eyes and nodded. "I know it must have taken you by surprise, especially considering the situation, and I'm sorry about that."

"Don't apologize for your feelings," I said, shaking my head and giving him a rueful smile. "It is true that it took me by surprise, but I've been thinking about it for a few days and I've decided that…I really don't mind." Oh, damn, I messed that up. I had meant to say that I felt the same way. May my subconscious suffer eternal damnation.

Andrew Lynch laughed. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

Glad that my intentions hadn't been misunderstood, I laughed too. "Yes."

He grinned lopsidedly at me, a wayward strand of hair falling in his face. "So, then," he said. "How about those martial arts lessons we've been talking about? I know a corner of the archive room that no one ever visits, full of the decades old cases that no one currently working here is old enough or experienced enough to have been involved with."

I cocked my head to look at him. "Are you sure you can, with your shoulder like that?"

He shrugged, grimacing as he evidently realized that his left shoulder was not fit for shrugging. "I'll figure something out," he said casually. Catching a glimpse of the stern look in my eyes, he added, "I promise."

"Very well then," I said, a small smile twitching at the corners of my mouth. "Show me the way, Mr. Andrew Lynch."

So he grasped my left hand in his right one and led me through the throngs of officers to a small door in the back corner of the room. He opened it and gestured with a sweep of his arm. "After you, Miss Emily Watson."

* * *

 _A/N: That's a wrap on book 1! Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, be sure to check out book 2, **A Necessary End**! It is posted on my profile. Best wishes to you. - Ell_


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